Pleas emanating from a full heart void of desire. Pleas separated from reality immersed in truth. An invitation to a path wandering through a smoldering embered fire cast in a dream. Memory Backward or Memory Ahead.
The Fictive Whisper beckons.
Dormant fingers stumbling over once familiar keys in an attempt to craft a fledgling thought within a staqnant cesspool of mental hibernation. It’s easier to scroll the Me!-Me! fragment, sing the choired cliches and preach the nauseous known. Harder to cross a rebellious conformity with a programmed perspective and pray for an expedited resurrection expressed.
The Fictive Whisper persists.
Deep wounds retard hearted necessity confronted by glassy stained walls feared and nestled around imaginative waters. “Tell me what to say,” the dry voice echoes into a statued worship suffering through the knew life. Wandering emotions affairing from the top of the world had only just begun to die in uprooted, decent, kindred, descent
The Fictive Whisper cries.
Fired from above, abandonments aside, kilning deepens and beautifies the still small voice full of hope less critic’s hype. Over time, on wind, under breath…hearing ears detect abandoned narrative strands living pulsed anticipation of choice intentions. A harmonied and melodied existence I am.
The Fictive Whisper lives.
Fictive Whispers 