The Olive Night

He woke, his head was full of fog that came up in the olive night, as pensive rain and waves of pain beset a mind adrift from right; a houndstooth coat, some aftershave – these seemed to have some bearing on the dream that he’d abandoned with the coming of revengeful dawn…

Sometimes, we cannot see the truth, because we don’t see anything. Turned inward as he was, a green occlusion – all he had to bring – was everywhere, in everything, it was his contribution: and what he couldn’t find was part of his own diminution…

The olive night he’d known before; it was another place and age, but still, he knew it’s steely cold, as suffocating waves of rage that he again should be ensnared by mists of his own making — and knowing there’s no “thinking out” of blank and hopeless aching…

He woke, his head was full of fog that came up in the olive night, as mist and rain came back again to where the rays had late shown bright; he knew the truth that set him free, but freedom came with some remorse — the olive night, it comes in fast, and claims us as its own, at last,

Of course

 

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