Socks Ply the Carpet

Found this little gem in my archives…

Socks ply the carpet, half a mile or so. They have nowhere else to go. Downstairs a nightmare subsists. And they aren’t light enough to tread the darkness. The wounded child seeks healing beautifying the burden of inexorable moments. The aggression of injured animals enjoins us to lick our own wounds before thronging the savanna. But we rarely do. So the grass is scarce, and clashingly crimson. But the grass is God’s, She will decide the color. Just as She exacts the wounds and allocates the relief. A stitch is hard to come by; I guess She is loath to sew. Lots of band-aids though. Infection runs rampant.

Socks ply the carpet. On the door’s other side persists reality. Immutable to the restless eye, life evolves at a cosmic pace. Wounds stretch light years across, requiring years of light to remedy. Every stitch is a black hole. Every spiral into obscurity bears the invisible mass of uncertainty. Progress toward the end of “progress.” Fall. Keep falling. Homeward bound to the end of “home.” The moon is overrated, dirt neglected its due. Come away from the stars.

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