Shackled sunbeams destined to die on the parched plains of our existence gasp a little just before they hit the ground. The sound is audible only to angels. I am an artificial light drooling over candles. My light is dusty, a little rose gold, disheveled. My God, God of pink peonies and purple pansies, strapped the ageless bulb to my heart. My heart beats because it is afraid not to. In the dark, Death holds a child’s hand.
Miniature Moon 