"Lilac"

 

The correlation between words, communication, meaning & execution are all congruent. They all matter alone. They all matter together. These are the facts.

I type with a full smile.

It's finally over.

The Dungeon Witch has become the figure in the soil that no longer has motivation. She was consumed by fear & falsification. No, she's consumed by the grubs and grave dirt, feeding the floor with leftovers and left behinds. Root systems come flooding in just to drink in nutrients made of ash & assumption.

Surly the sunlight and fresh air in the forest should've cleansed the palate, alas, the bitter taste of reliving the past that was "let go of" still lingers on mental and emotional taste buds. Piquancy of motions forward are held in contempt by the overpowering taste of a liar's lack of understanding & accountability. The profile screams in sour strands of overbearing and lackluster authoritarianism.

When we add seasoning, we take note not to add too much of one over the other. A crippled child cooking in the kitchen of life, wearing oven mitts over stumped limbs. A fire hazard waiting to happen. This casserole stinks of misunderstanding and unwavering desire to control the outcome of all. When the extinguisher is full of hot air the room becomes an inferno.

Just before the sirens blared I stood in the door frame, eyes wide & engulfed in the towering heat of the final gas line making it's entrance. Conflagration is the means to an end when dinner sucks and the chef is off in the corner being paranoiac. Scribbles in "keep yourself down" ketchup line the grout of the tiled floor. The guests are hungry but not for this.

The entirety of the kitchen staff is on break, smoking cigarettes, talking about the day & cackling about the meltdown that the saucier had just minutes ago. Even the dishwasher had to chuckle and tear up over the absolute downfall had, based on nothing more than incompetent actions of a non-professional. An apprentice in the greatest sense.

As originally thought, the repeat business wasn't going to be accepted by the new management. Pink slips all around. Walking papers strewn out under the feet of glass casket pallbearers. Yolk casings cascade in all directions and the staff is looking in amazement as if to say 'Who the fuck do they think they are?' Don't bother, the industry has too many monikers.

The crew walks the bleeding pavement to their favorite haunt. They huddle in and exchange their views. They discuss the days events and round out the evening. Each goes their own direction and know that it wasn't a fluke, a hoax or even a dream All eyes on the timeline of moments and it's unanimous:

That self situated fishmonger or so called enjoyment stays in the freezer, alone & inhales the breath of a bullet.