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CURVED: Sons

Alexander Field, Curved

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Alexander Field

 

Accompanied by House of Waters – In Waves

 

“The whole day has been loops of tiny circles.”

He exhales vibrantly, “my mind is minced.”

 

Three peas sat atop a mossy boulder, a massive rock, with a view most valorous- so magnificent. The waters whirlpool way down below wound their ecstatic exchanges of thoughts and laughter.

 

“The world’s just one big circle.”

“…You got me, there.”

 

A single vine of five-leaf locks held the mass in place, giving the fellows who floated above a sense of security. They could not fall no matter how hard they slapped their knees and stomped their hooves; a prance of stallions within the canyon; above the river & under their Xanadu- the zenith- the sun.

A horn blared; a journey arrived. A pair from the three mounted their steed, and launched down to the river, to the last rock, looking for a widower whipped through the water, maybe washed onto the shore. A goner for sure, but there are those who explore what they abhor.

 

Unless, they accepted the victim is no more.

 

The search stopped. Steered in reverse, the leap became a climb.

 

The saints & steeds stood before another boulder so grand, with another decision on hand. The right, immediately the right, loose sand and stone with a slate slab overhead. Unsure of the footing, the first fled left on the second’s advice, inspecting another direction through soil and foliage.

Here they’d part, for neither was intelligent.

 

Their compass was well spent.

 

As they diverged, the former became clearer, a mirror, and a pair divided became excited, pushing further, floating on ferns, worms & termites. They lost sight of one another. They forgot about each other. Their fright began to gather. It slathered the rock and paved a path, shallow on the steep. Each saint under branches, stretching as pikes in barricades.

They could have been heroes to stomp and march in parade.

 

“Blast,” he sprayed, choking in trenches, a maze, a charade.

This time they met their cost; they paid.

 

“Chechembe, Chechembe! Ay-oh, Ay-oh!”

 

He sang, displaying a sense of loss. Instinct his boss, he sought the sun, a lookout to toss his eyes across the ravaged ravine. There– a staff stabbed deep in the steep to seek his brother, dying innocent. His compass spent, up, up, he went.

 

“God, is this journey heaven sent?”

 

Their paths once crossed. They came & went.

 

Time was lent.

 

The sun would set.

 

The day would end innocent.

 

 

They never met.

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CURVED: Sons