Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

When he was born, his mother shoved him deeper into the hole and pecked at the sticky broken shell. Of course, he didn't remember that. He did remember sharing the hole with smells and noises like him . Days were blurry for a long, long time. His first recollection of anything was the darkness and the suffocation, weighing down on him. Why did she do that? There was nothing more scary than that. But as the days passed by, the same presence and heaviness became his safety. Things were changing slowly. His body was changing, even though he didn't understand it then. But he started remembering things, he started poking his head out of the hole to see what lay outside. But he wasn't ready. Then the trouble started. The monster noticed them in her house. She started poking them with a long thing, which now when he remembers, was like a tree branch. Their strategy was to shift around and flatter their baby wings in order to avoid getting hurt. But the branch did poke into their s

My words are dying, my words are lying, where are my words so lost? Swirling, curling, magnificent, dynamos of volt attacks, positioned in the darkened, dazzling outburst of passion, in the slates of unrequited love, sliding down the debris of despair, hopeful of change, capable of relief, disguised under the quilts of art, sneaking away in the high night of many a flagging centuries, captured by the metre soldiers, tied to the corrupt concept tree, slapped, tortured, escaping and howling away near the river, and plunging towards the fall, the end, the pun of the lashing waterfall, the birth of the current, lighting the many forgotten corners of rooms and places unseen. Where then are my words in this blindness I could see before?