The Mercury, that vestibule of recrimination, now mauls my brain at night, formulating tinctures of bayou hue and frothing moss sinews. The light from a cigarette flickering in the windshield, the quiet trespass through immersion in time’s capitulation, on a blackLouisiana backroad, the shadows of evil surge by, relentless domicile of quandary for this ingot’s query. It’s aghast, swirling trees and posts, a house of cards, folding, crushed, simple taps on the door of mayhem, the zero hour of infamy, treacherous, magnanimous, lofty syrup pine synergy, a passage into a soliloquy of cicadas and night birds.
I took this journey, as though some ancient gargoyles reproach commanded me, aloft in dust’s escarpment. The haze of time reflects the breath of the noble cause of a loquacious voyage to which the end is the beginning. The smoke-filled Mercury fullfills its pledge.
The actor is notorious from the moment’s angle, the widow cracks open to a breath of canyon zest, the orbit of symmetry is skewed though, and now I remind the traitor, fear not the evening cold.
The morning finds the Mercury, and the matters of yesterday become transient oxymorons, languid engines of entropic empathy. – Sinz