Everyone around me is falling apart. Maybe we’ve reached max capacity for grief. Maybe our gauges have gone mad and cracked and the steam train whistle that’s been closing in on us with it’s Cyclops eye finally hit us.

Maybe this is where we fall and crumble in to rubble. Maybe this is the resting place of all that was, all that tried but couldn’t hold its own.

Maybe this is where we fall. Like crumbling statues eroded to rocks and chunks of granite at the base of a pedestal that once held wings and glory and fire in stone.

Maybe this is where we fall.


Everyone I love is falling apart and slipping through my fingers like grains of sand, my own crumbling stones falling to pile with theirs. All around me statues crack. An arm falls off, a leg begins to crumble. All around me are broken angels with chipped wings. Maybe we are waiting for a fire to finish the job, fling is part and parcel in to the air, melt us to glass so that we can learn to be fragile again.

Maybe are waiting to be scooped up and mixed in to mortar, laid next to each other in a wall so that we can learn to be strong again. Maybe. But for now, all around me are crumbling angels and maybe this is where we fall.



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