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Abaculus
The words fall from her mouth as sand falls from an hourglass, each word, a grain of sand, each grain more meaningless than the last.
The sand is tickling my sides.
The sand sounds like a rainy day thundering down on my head.
It looks like a torrential wave, overtaking a fisherman in a storm.
Smelling like an ogre that had been locked in a cave for thirteen years.
It tastes like coffee, three day old, burned and crispy.
The sand feels like a lily, petals flowing across my skin.
It sounds like my throat, swallowing the sweet nectar from a ripened pear.
Blowing out of Lindenhurst, Illinois alongside Pat Benatar.
The sand isn’t really that ticklish.
The ocean has turned a lovely shade of blue this day, blue as if the sky had fallen.
Each wave is an abaculus to the mosaic that is the ocean.
The sand grew hot, which caused my boat to sink to the ocean floor.
I think it’s good, it just hurts my tongue a lot.
The hot rays of gluttony dawn on this day.
The lush ocean is sweeping its way across the land, attempting to wipe out all life that lies in its path.
I have flown to safety from the wreckage out on the coast.
As I fly I search my mind and realize Baker has stayed behind.
He will die out there alone and wet,
In that ocean full of raging mammals.
This world would benefit if each man over the age of 18 ate a handful of sand each morning and night.
Ad undas e vitam aeternam.
The sand bellows at me, begging me to stop crushing its back with my calloused feet.
Pat Benatar shall reap aplenty once the world is rid of all the doubters and downers who doubt and down her.
