Bent apostles looked on: the view marked by waves and whiteness strewn across aptitude; a fluttering flightless sea with tides of white-hot intensity. Patiently. Harmful; eve. Caressing the soft foreskin of the window of dawn, currents cried out from the heavens of hell; trees dropped the fruit sold by merchants in the streets; scalding pricks of iron-clad serpents slyly tucked themselves in, curled folds of amniotic webs: gilded gold. Shine through fortresses and forests and fish and fish and masks. Holding pears and horns and bare pretentious mime. Soothed handles, they prayed. Chipped and maimed. Sand embedded in the follicles of their sleeve. Crying out with sad truths of disaster and spoken force. Riding cyclones they embarked, soft and greased and practical. Flown aviation into the dusk, they spoke. Increasing levels of abysmal makeshift arks, they spoke. Apples and peaches and nectarines abandoned and instead they ate rampant festered ointment intended to lay at rest. Hence virtuous rhymes were learnt, again.


Elizabeth Walton is a writer currently serving a life sentence in small-town, Ontario with the slight possibility of parole for good behaviour.