3 | Diaries of the Seawalls
Notes of the trigger fingers, patches of black and blue with Hollywood eyes looking right into my would. Tenor greatness, streets of Elm's. Sirens rocking the night, all over the place. His stitched smile is still as beautiful as ever. Ever haunting and vividly twisted. Over the blue night sky with the shimmering summer lights within each freckles of his cold body. Shattered faces all seams to crash within the withering sound of Sinatra and Rhodes. The symphony of the west side orchestra with bells ringing all over the prairie's herbs. Hum to scatter them witnesses all over the shallow glass mirrors. They dropped his body from the tree he's hanging from seven feet high. Gnawing the rope until his neck is free from constrictions. Grim grins down the sink's faucets pulling me deeper and deeper, blue of the only one I had left, with violet and orange praying across the angel like chimera bells. God bless his soul, god bless his rainbow tainted soul. Oh, hell will be grinning, oh, and so it did. Far fetched memories of august came to my mind as the leaves crushing made its way to harps. Another day. A new day. I can see the media covering what happened to Liam while his family is still tainted black, his body was on a wooden casket, his face were covered for it was too severed. Cries and whimpers of the whimsical starry ponders. I'm still on the middle of it all down the sea walls, where sea shells, vendettas, grudge, happiness, loathe and wild wings lie, flying through the fluid airs of Notre Dame. Post kingdom disaster still disarmed with heavenly sights. Heirs of the cities, still on fire to this day. I can still remember it. A voice from the past. Couple days into the future window grinding my teeth through the sounds of eclipse innocence. Mulberry times indeed, it took me a while to realise, the trance the void of the cosmos that we're in, weren't?. Diaries of the strongholds, ties and leather boots through the lines of flies them mouths have talking right in front of their mics. Green riversides, Hampton's Shakespeare ballads. Sonnets alike to shallow waters thereby. It was a memory. Ash, dust, gunpowder as one by one the invaders troops are slaughtering each townsmen. Firecrackers leafs after another. Thunder. Fiery gods wails. I can hear them agonizing, praying, begging, preaching and weaving. All broken dreams, all loose strings. The tension between the borders. I'm still here on the sea walls. Still the air of the South off-putting, caressing me with each and every one of their lovely fingers, wet fingertips divine mercy. Interventions of the sane shadow I see now and then near the firefly prairies where he died. I reckon the fireflies are him, not her little sister. He doesn't even have one. It's my sister whose he's treating as his little sister, bells bless her soul. She got taken by the invaders and the last time we saw her is when her body was found lifeless with nothing of her clothes was found. Tattered tattoo skin. Oh, everything feels like a movie. Things from afar getting nearer as the ground shakes every now and then. March, chants and give ways. Gunshot after gunshot. Even the Hawks stand no chance. Everything was like a movie. Played in slow motion. With jazz playing and a sepia toned voice singing. The guitar strums I keep hearing nearby, hums and lullabies. Oh, how amazing, oh, how, how cruel . Oh, how resenting, every shot of the bullets. Every fire entries, fragile high bums. The world went on and on, as the silence was singing the same song over and over again, getting louder and louder with every candle being put off. Lalala. Lalalala. With every breath, the sound of rifles turning into a lovely symphony. Strings all over their wavering screams. Things are different here by the sea walls. I thought to myself as cicadas buzz all over the forsaken family legacy. The metallic sound of gates opening led me to hearing my mother's songs, heavenly horrifying. I heard the wooden gates open. Guess this is it. Guess this is our time. Bells oh, heavy metal rivers. Have mercy firefly deity. Dried leaves crunching. One. Two.
Things seems to be a little different here on the seawalls. I ought to myself as the cold metal pierced right through my head.