...

There’s a delay in my senses, a glitch of sorts, all for the one, that which speaks to me, “You will die.” Ghost trails follow the cards I raise and let fall, sillage of misfortune fades like time wasted. New days dawn from darkness, as shall I, for what speaks to my soul is aurora’s song, and the dreams I let slip my tongue, become the wilds that roam the sleep abandoned streets. From a distance, I see golden stars hovering amidst the barren December branches. As I draw nearer, I retell the tale, of forsythia blooms bending rules. I get lost in thought, staring at the silvery velvet magnolia buds, lost of bearings and degrees. I wonder if I’m as brilliantly resilient, as daringly deceptive, if what may seem a weakness, a loss in faculty, is in fact my bounty, and I’ll persist through harsh cold and brutal winter conditions to thrive into something exceptional. Oh God, how I love my imperfections. I wonder if the stars I see, that signify a blinding ache in my brain, are pregnant with my own wishes deferred. I wonder a novel from a single word. All I want from this age forth, is growth.

E. A. O'Connell