I hear the squawk of their communion, the
call of their pain.
I
hear the anguished laugh of tortured demons, like the tormented scream of a
runaway train. The talk around the
neighborhood is that the sound is meant to keep other predators from feasting
on the flesh of the naïve, or feeding on abandoned covenants; the lost promises
that have been left laying in the sand like a dead seal tangled in kelp,
strangled by the stench of regret, and the lack of any measurable remorse.
It begins with an innocent sense of infatuation, and ends with an untimely death on the shore. Yes, it always begins that way, the traditional mating dance, the conditional ritual of getting into someone's pants in exchange for a fancy wedding cake, and a place at the table of the in-laws. If feathers get ruffled, or wings get clipped, at least we all can know it started with the squawk of seagulls in the rain, the call of their pain.
It begins with an innocent sense of infatuation, and ends with an untimely death on the shore. Yes, it always begins that way, the traditional mating dance, the conditional ritual of getting into someone's pants in exchange for a fancy wedding cake, and a place at the table of the in-laws. If feathers get ruffled, or wings get clipped, at least we all can know it started with the squawk of seagulls in the rain, the call of their pain.
And
it ended when the cake collapsed.