Antiseptic

Photo by René Porter on Unsplash

I'm serene. The feeling is unusual. One that I was told I felt in the remote. The past from which I ran. But now only stroll. Away, stroll. From that old Shay. The one with the damage. The one that feels.

That past haunts, like Stephen King, winding unsung death into the abyss. But that's not real. Imagination. They say. Those same that say I'm not the same. A different individual. Quite odd. Antiseptic. Not like a cold, dilapidated hospital. No, more of the older adult home. Urine.

Sunshine’s stunning epiphany, I saw it again. Her shine, among the light. Serenity again. Such that I cannot dwell, I cannot think.

The extravagant pressing pressure. But my heart, her love. Search until her reign. The only pressing pressure.