Poultry In a Dish So Round It Makes the Swallows Go Down

S and P Receding towards grassy plains, fizzing with the sparks produced from unnatural synthesizers. I am tired, letting out an engulfing yawn. My ship, torn and withered as it may be, is uniquely mine. I have never doubted this once, though I have twice; I will not get into that. What I will get into is the silver beneath my legs, the makings of such being from some sort of nectar which seeped, akin to perspiration, from the widening pores of cruel, unfurled humanity. A chuckle in a dry-mouth forest, with timber aflame and raging lacerations tearing through with fiery menace, licking bark and brush. I grew to appreciate it; firework display at dawn, morning replete with boiling cake and melting fevers. Ice slips into pools of blood, and what was sharp was then soft, lapping upon the outer voice of reason, christening it in a way both pure and impure. Spoken words float and dance and oscillate to the cadence of distant gunfire; the clatter resonates through earthly skin and mossy gauze, letting past residents in on the secret: man was not done with their domain. Honey, I’m home, we shouted, spilling into the surmounted mounds of dirtied pebble. Skittering further and further, where fear was the zeitgeist and we were the empowered, springing to action dogma resilient enough for the most fervent iconoclast. Ebbing and waving goodbye, the generational tears of a lost people stood in silence, blending with shadow and muffled flicker.