Quoth, quoth and quoth some more.

Purple and black smear a swirl in shades of grey, then are swallowed and blended and forgotten, but for a slight darkening amidst the mist.

Flowers swoon rather than bloom, their once vibrant colors now faded in placid pastels. Bored bees buzz disdainfully then leave.

Listless children sit on damp porches picking at scabs on blistered skin. Fetid air muffles nonexistent stillborn sounds.

Neither sun nor moon nor stars pierce nebulous omnipresent shadows, not anymore, perhaps here, they never have.

Here no greens thrive, nor yellows, certainly not oranges or reds. This is the domain of the dark and the bleached and the dead.

Dread is comfortable here, close to much it holds dear; dank, chill air entwined with terror while despair plays with fear.

A bird, blue black plumage glistening, stretches its mangy wings and utters a shrilly piercing cry: “ask why they die ere I reply”.

Then shrilly laughs as a home shorn arrow whispers by: “ask why they die ere I reply. Ask why, ask why, ask why; then die”.

Purple and black smear a swirl in shades of grey, then are swallowed and blended and forgotten, but for a slight darkening amidst the mist.
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© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2017; all rights reserved