Vincent van Gogh

Falling Down After the winnowing, the broken branch the broken bone set with a rope and stick the limp homeward, a sharp metallic taste overpowering the scent of apple along the way, rush of blood becoming steam and wheeze. Adolescent ritual a thrust toward manhood, the plummet and rise an accidental marriage of intent. Each fall an awful turning of season; the withered leaf a badge of disrepute redeemed in a returning to the soil of fractured memory, fading, fading . . . to be reborn without sin, unaware of the fatality of consequence.

JeanPaul Jenack

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