I can pour my heart out of a cracking jar, but I can’t promise the pressure won’t cause it to break. A vessel, responsible for taking ideas and emotions across oceans and landscapes, sinks beneath the waves, where it could rise and become legendary like the Titanic or remain preserved and silenced under vicious waves of despondency. Once a sailing ship, hopeful for new adventures, the vessel is now nothing but a carcass, remnant of what once was. It’s hull bears the scars of stormy seas and neglectful navigation by both its captain and crew.
Rolling hills are set ablaze, and secretly I hope the flames swallow the grass and leave nothing to prosper. These ashes can hide the life that used to thrive there, and the creatures who trample across it habitually can lose the memory among a busy schedule of delusion. The weeds planted in the fissures of a harrowed brain are plucked by dispirited children like summer grass. Dandelions and stiff vines have grown immune to Prozac pesticides, and slowly a disease seeps over prairies like arms of Creeping Charlie. The landscape stands no chance against the trials of nature, and consequently suffocates slowly. Let natural selection seize its victims and allow new life come of the the old. May that life be stronger than the last, and let the vessel rest in peace in it’s icy casket thousands of feet underwater