Bells

The sound of the thing, I think I like it.

I think I like it in the same way I like the sound of church bells in the morning: a songpost pointing the finger directly and unmistakably at what I've never wanted, no matter how badly I wanted to, no matter how much easier it would have made everything simply to want it.

But desire wears no mask, tips no indolent hat at the coquetry of mediation.

It just croons to you in the evening hours, as rain wets the lovliest of leaves, precipitating decomposition.

I mean, this is the real deal baby; do you follow?

Or does the very act of following indicate a meaning I don't intend, some shadowy monster digging his paws into the back of my idiom and murking it all up, dragging my coattails back into that miasmic lagoon.

And yes, I'm well aware of what I got a mouthful of.