Friday, 17 June 2016

The Nest




The dregs of a hammock shook, a precarious pile of rusted utensils fell cascading, unwarranted, into a tumultuous dis chord. The trees shook and the raft boarded at the verge of the thunderous shore- rattled. Just another tremulous murmur. Another tremor. Repulsive of its inhabitant’s deeds.

And then followed a long episode of blackening silence. Like a hollow casket or the labyrinth of one’s ear. Lost in its own magnanimity. Piercing, penetrating silence like a thorn latched in an ebony skin.

It was as if this peninsula had all the hope of music famished like its deserters. Nothing but a nest of lies and broken dreams.                                                                                 – Plath's Kin

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