vlpn

what we lose in the thaw under the blanket of summer petrichor, entrenched in the mire of carpet thread reeds, a raucous concert of cicadas sings, and among them is a solo symphonist. i gave them my words, gave them all, and you too, my words, my mosaic of paeans, the ones composed of unfurling blooms, and the footsteps of falling rain. then time, but let’s not lie, it was really you, took them and made them into a new language of syllables lost in the deafening profanity of traffic horns, and the incessant glare of bulbed lights, and now when they talk of glaciers becoming silt, of summers now eternal eye, you clamp your hands on your ears and call that a cacophony. furthermore, to add insult to injury, you make the space loud enough, thick enough so then you can hear their cacophony a little less, don’t you find that strange, it’s really so you can collectively forget a little more, and a little more builds, and builds, and builds at first it was just baby steps, just small