under my hand flesh of flowers
under my hand warm landscape.
(c) Doris Lessing
...twisted furze roots, tufts of rushes, or oozing lumps of fleshy fungi, which at this season lay scattered about the heath like the rotten liver and lungs of some colossal animal
(c) Thomas Hardy
The spring has come. It sprang like a witch on a broom—laughing, etching its mark on everything and everybody. It even seems to hide something carnal and carnivorous, promising a heavy summer heat. It hisses, imping feathers into the bare, poor wings of human hearts; it ghoulishly digs into minds, poisoning and intoxicating them. Everything carries a sweet, bitter, rotten, earthy scent. Nothing is fresh, cool, or sparkling. No wind. Just wine; winding, twisting, and stretching the mind over and over... again and again.
A strange perception of the spring...
A strange perception of the spring
© Copyright: Мария Баулина, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114031211361
Свидетельство о публикации №114031211361
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