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there was
no plan
that day
the blueprint
long faded
the intention
forgotten
the gesture
not
one after another
it carried out
its mission
unscripted
predestined
with no fanfare
the now
took care
of the
then
They are all dead. All. One by one, and en masse. Dead. The whole lot. Only one left. The human. Now all alone and quite insane, it still survives. Not for long. It roams the barren landscape, breathing acrid air as its lungs slowly shut down. Once standing, it is crawling now, retracing the path of the other animals, oblivious to its own murderous instincts. It still believes it can win. Win what? Soulless and heartless, it continues to think but there is nothing left to think about. And once its mind is completely gone, the human, too, will die. Any moment now. And no maggots left to dispose of its corpse…
Handout picture released by the town council of Chalchicomula showing one of the two mummified corpses found near the peak of the 5,636-metre Pico de Orizaba, also known as the Citlaltepetl volcano, on the border between the states of Veracruz and Puebla, on March 5, 2015. A team of Mexican climbers searching for a frozen body on the country’s highest mountain — and North America’s third — stumbled onto a second mummified cadaver during their expedition on March 5. The 12 local civil protection mountaineers had embarked on their mission after climbers reported seeing a frozen skull 310 metres (1,000 feet) from the peak of the Pico de Orizaba on Monday. The second body was found 150 metres away, and it was also frozen and mummified, said Juan Navarro, mayor of the town of Chalchicomula de Sesma, near the mountain. AFP PHOTO / CHALCHICOMULA TOWN COUNCIL / HILARIO AGUILAR — RESTRICTED TO EDITORIAL USE – MANDATORY CREDIT “AFP PHOTO / CHALCHICOMULA TOWN COUNCIL / HILARIO AGUILAR” – NO MARKETING NO ADVERTISING CAMPAIGNS – DISTRIBUTED AS A SERVICE TO CLIENTSHILARIO AGUILAR/AFP/Getty Images
SOMETHING IS PRESSING ON MY MIND
SOMETHING IS WRIGGLING TO THE FRONT
SOMETHING WILL NOT JUST LET ME BE
IT WILL NOT NOT TILL I DIE
SOMETHING IS EATING ME INSIDE
SOMETHING I CAN AND WON’T WITHHOLD
I AM MY OWN WORST CANNIBAL
WITH NO HOPE LEFT NO HOPE AT ALL
Art: Francis Bacon, Self Portrait
Tangled up in filaments of fear
Tripping on hope
Slipping on longing
I stumble and grope in despair
The unknown my hunting ground
Without end
Bordered by death
And life
Tangled up in a web of providence
I release my hold on all
And breathe in anew…
©aother
The temperature had been rising all day and by the late afternoon the heat was like an unwanted visitor, tiresome, heavy… She felt its weight on her body which, coated in a fine layer of perspiration, seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the wicker chair as if pulled by an unseen force.
She drew a deep breath and run her hands across her chest, spreading the moisture that formed tiny bubbles on her hot skin, slowly, deliberately, as if it were the seed spilled over her by an impatient lover.
The window remained closed, and she stared in resignation at the torn screen. She tried fixing it herself, in vain, as the insects buzzed around her, pushing, jostling to enter the room.
The doorbell broke her reverie, and wrapping the bathrobe around her, she unbolted the door.
He was tall, very tall, and at first her glance rested on his chest. She quickly looked up to meet his gaze, direct, unflinching, dark. He was leaning slightly against the doorframe, already inside in spirit, his body on the brink of movement, suspended.
She led him into the room and stood back as he inspected the window.
©aother
The other 