Watership Down

Folder:

2015

Life can be solved in four-hundred and seventy-eight pages minus the need to know what happens after it all ends because it ends like a Dyson on a shag rug; disconnect repertories in four stages.

My first attempt was wrought with metaphor, once preformed the pages become paper again; formative years of failures; feeling invisible; never fitting in. Until I sank down when the curtains closed, drowning in the creases of their seams; she always gets on the plane…; in the end I am running, always running away.

My second go was broken beer goggles, bleeding eyes; sometimes the grass is frozen on the other side of the fence, so it grows cinnamon stalks for valentines and shapes love like answerless questions; did they find home or heaven?

The third time I was sleeping and you were standing in the down at the end with the great oak tree and the swell of green grass stretching past the excess corners of my imagination. I was a thousand rabbits feeding on the milkweed of your toes; you picked me up by the scruff of the neck, stroked my dark fur, and then placed me softly at your feet.

I absolved to the green abyss—the wind waked with laughter—something’s wrong—your lips stood still as the oak leaves—the grass was violent with motion—rabbits shaking lose their winter coats—the pond was missing…

I awoke to a sweating heart spitting paper wads onto bathroom walls, life was silent.

I poured myself a glass of water—confirmed that my doors were locked—went back to bed.

The forth attempt is still settling dust plagued by how it all ends...

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