Survival Of The Fittest
The end of days.
The calm before the storm.
Hard to forsee what could be coming;
In the interim she's storing up, making do, preparing for the worst, hoping for the best
Battening down the hatches.
A long, hard push of concerted focus, strong and steady, no rest, no respite until the storm hits.
Then all bets are off.
No matter how prepared she thinks she is, there's no way to brace for the unknown.
Not really.
There are recommendations, protocol, the best of good intentions laid out before her but really
She does not now how this will go down.
When disaster strikes only then will she see what she's made of.
What we are all made of.
Survival of the fittest, who's to say.
Right now she's lighting fires.
For warmth, for whimsy, for whatever he left behind that she can get her hands on.
She will burn it all up, an offer to the gods circling, threatening to tear this house down, rip it from it's foundations, leaving it's skeleton exposed.
A ratlling bag of bones covered in ash.
Bare.
The rains are coming.
Drowning the carefully manicured lawns and artfully arranged outdoor loungers gleefully purchased with thoughts of repose and regeneration
Nights of star filled skies pockmarked with fireflies
Humming
Alighting on her hair
They float by the sliding glass doors, gently bowing and waving as they head down the crescent in an unexpected exit.
There is a stillness here.
A quiet calm underscored by the steady thrum of water emptying into the bowels of her home
Her heart,
Her head
Under
She's drowning silently
She floats up on her back, her hair cascading behind her
A halo of red splayed out like fingers
Undulating like rays of sun as the dying embers of what was left behind
Slowly extinguish,
Engulfed by what has come to be.
The calm before the storm.
Hard to forsee what could be coming;
In the interim she's storing up, making do, preparing for the worst, hoping for the best
Battening down the hatches.
A long, hard push of concerted focus, strong and steady, no rest, no respite until the storm hits.
Then all bets are off.
No matter how prepared she thinks she is, there's no way to brace for the unknown.
Not really.
There are recommendations, protocol, the best of good intentions laid out before her but really
She does not now how this will go down.
When disaster strikes only then will she see what she's made of.
What we are all made of.
Survival of the fittest, who's to say.
Right now she's lighting fires.
For warmth, for whimsy, for whatever he left behind that she can get her hands on.
She will burn it all up, an offer to the gods circling, threatening to tear this house down, rip it from it's foundations, leaving it's skeleton exposed.
A ratlling bag of bones covered in ash.
Bare.
The rains are coming.
Drowning the carefully manicured lawns and artfully arranged outdoor loungers gleefully purchased with thoughts of repose and regeneration
Nights of star filled skies pockmarked with fireflies
Humming
Alighting on her hair
They float by the sliding glass doors, gently bowing and waving as they head down the crescent in an unexpected exit.
There is a stillness here.
A quiet calm underscored by the steady thrum of water emptying into the bowels of her home
Her heart,
Her head
Under
She's drowning silently
She floats up on her back, her hair cascading behind her
A halo of red splayed out like fingers
Undulating like rays of sun as the dying embers of what was left behind
Slowly extinguish,
Engulfed by what has come to be.
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