Oxide

I am the rust that is produced, earth, miasma. Bones, snails. I am a specter. Desert. Hot. Bay, abyss.
Despite setbacks, I fight with Titans. They have been recovered from the pit. The sea has yielded its immensity and watches them depart. Lava. Storms. A Cyclops with a mace and a ferocious pitchfork.
I write because I cannot paint. I write as a kind of diary.
Dear Diary.
My little dwarf prince turned one.
Dear Diary.
The sky is gray. The colors of the afternoon have diluted. I feel the joy of my little man, tender, oblivious to the world. It is his world of dreams and cotton candy. The sky is blue in his memory. In mine, it remains gray. The clouds form a hateful carousel. The temperature seems to never stop rising.
Dear Diary.
A spider has taken over my house. She'll be a squatter or an inert traveler swapping on the roof. I let her plot freely. It's her time. I let her descend on her golden thread. Maybe I'll catch a fly and allow it to settle. Breathe. Perhaps a fruitful symbiosis.
Dear Diary.
An archangel has come to my window. His wings were burned.

imagin

for @wakeupkitty