This is my December
The dirt and dust draw away from her feet. The earth seems to cringe back from the touch of her naked foot. It shifts and makes noises of discontent as her weight moves itself. She pays no heed. Her long white limbs continue to carry her over the hollowed grounds: hollowed of depth and hollowed of life. The earth is revolted at her presence here. It openly complains that it does not wish to hold her. But God gave it no choice. God made it the foundation for all that live and the resting place for all that have died. It is humans that have made this particular stretch of earth hollow. They litter the layers of rock and stone with their bodies when they're not useing them. But no body tossed aside has ever been reclaimed and the ground wonders why that is. For particles of dust and dirt have no sense of life nor death nor passage of time. Their matter is dead to begin with and memories of life have long since past. For this reason, it is quite impossible to explain the ground it's purpose when it has been chosen to hold the dead. For all the earth knows is that you've chosen this particular place to park your organic vehicle.
Despite this quality of all grounds on which we step, the earth here behaves in a queer fashion. It seems to have personafied itself. As if it has accumulated the life of those who came here to end theirs. She knows this. She expected this reaction. The very dust and dirt openly object and revolt in their torment. It seems they hate this ritual of unwanted souls. But it is because of this reality of being forsaken that this earth has it's twisted sense of life. She wastes no time considering how the end of hers means the addition to it's. She distracts herself with her lazy gated walk down where through the disturbed dirt, an invisable path is formed. She stumbles upon a sliver of land that does not shift beneath her feet and make noise. The silence screams her name. So narrow is this untouched earth, paralleled by bodies and life in such decay. She wastes no time in moving the land herself, with her own two opaque hands. Soon all is ready and the earth swarms around her in a whirlpool of dust and slithering sand and stone. It's fureious with her as it was with all who came before her. She produces from the slip in her hair the condenced, shaved metals that came from deep beneath the surface. This earth is cold and lifeless in her grasp. It glints in the rising sun and behaves correctly, as a good little peice of earth should. It makes no effort to move away from her body as it's pushed beneath the skin and through the vein in her leg. She lays back now, letting the red water come out and fill the hole in the heart. As her eyes fall, the sun rises on the first morning of winter.
'It is now December.' is the last thought that echos through her head as it drains itself of blood. 'Look how much I've grown and be proud of me. I now go back to sleep.'
Despite this quality of all grounds on which we step, the earth here behaves in a queer fashion. It seems to have personafied itself. As if it has accumulated the life of those who came here to end theirs. She knows this. She expected this reaction. The very dust and dirt openly object and revolt in their torment. It seems they hate this ritual of unwanted souls. But it is because of this reality of being forsaken that this earth has it's twisted sense of life. She wastes no time considering how the end of hers means the addition to it's. She distracts herself with her lazy gated walk down where through the disturbed dirt, an invisable path is formed. She stumbles upon a sliver of land that does not shift beneath her feet and make noise. The silence screams her name. So narrow is this untouched earth, paralleled by bodies and life in such decay. She wastes no time in moving the land herself, with her own two opaque hands. Soon all is ready and the earth swarms around her in a whirlpool of dust and slithering sand and stone. It's fureious with her as it was with all who came before her. She produces from the slip in her hair the condenced, shaved metals that came from deep beneath the surface. This earth is cold and lifeless in her grasp. It glints in the rising sun and behaves correctly, as a good little peice of earth should. It makes no effort to move away from her body as it's pushed beneath the skin and through the vein in her leg. She lays back now, letting the red water come out and fill the hole in the heart. As her eyes fall, the sun rises on the first morning of winter.
'It is now December.' is the last thought that echos through her head as it drains itself of blood. 'Look how much I've grown and be proud of me. I now go back to sleep.'