Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

I walked, appreciating the almost-dying day. Flowers are still beautiful around here during this season, and there are butterflies playing all around. And in my path I found a broken, dead seed-pod. I picked it up and held it in my hand, and thought of this decayed shell. And my heart grew full with sorrow, for I know that to grow we must leave something behind. But there is heartbreak in this action, and we see the loss. And I walked up the hill, and cried for the leaving of what I loved.

And so we come to the time when the hours cloak us ever-gently and evermore in creeping darkness. And the land immolates itself to create new seed and new issue for two seasons from now. But first must come the dying time. And we have seen this cycle before, in the lovely hourglass of waiting. Our feet still tread, though now we are so obscured that we can only see one foot in front of another. The whisper of those passed on and passed by cause us to reach out our hands in welcome, with slightly morbid thoughts of greeting a beloved from the Other Side. And I am able to see this in my flat mirror surface, though slightly concave, so not flat at all. And I see it in the crystal globe, or what they call the globe of the world. It has a taste, a smell and a feeling, all radiating out from the radio station of synaesthesia and Divine synechdoche. As above, so below. I see a vision of this constantly. In the time-kissed faces of you, in which aging makes a sketch of gradual death-mask. Now ...