Words and thoughts scatter like ashes in the wind. Some land where they are meant to, some travel (unseen) to unknown end points, and some, very inconveniently, fly back in your face.
One.
Big pictures become fragmented, like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. Try as we might we cannot complete the picture because someone has lost the coloured piece that slots in and holds it all together.
Two.
The beauty of everyday surroundings become a little duller. It is easier to see the weeds rather than the flowers. The dead daisies outnumber the buds and blossoms.
Three.
Noise becomes discordant. The airplane drowns out the birdsong and the rustling of the leaves gives way to hooters and phones ringing, so that all you want to do is block your ears.
Four.
Splinters prick into your skin from trying to clean up broken planks of wood. Trying to remove it makes a gouge in your skin, and you curse the wood instead of seeing the beauty of the grain.
Five.
Tea tastes metallic and slightly bitter. It no longer gives comfort or warmth. Cups are left half drunk, contents staining the mug from sitting too long without being rinsed out.
Six.
Flames dance menacingly, licking the wax in an act of self destruction - sacrificing the whole for the sake of a faint glimmer.
Seven.
Debris piles up, choking the undergrowth, because no one picks up the discarded empty cartons and plastic packets of consumerism.
Eight
The night time becomes a curfew, self imposed, because the darkness provides cover for the unspeakable. Sleep drifts with worry.
Nine.
The acrid smell of hops fermenting sours the fresh air. Hops lead to hurt, destruction, strangulation. Drinking in the fury of an unfilled nation, speaking through hurting hands, knives and guns.
Ten.
The bodies pile up, one on top of the next, limbs drooping lifelessly, fingernails broken from scratching for life. Screams unheard, futures buried, suited promises declaring this is a crisis.
Words and thoughts scatter like ashes in the wind.
