The Fall of the Towers
A short statement of the absurd.
A sultry wind dejectedly lifted the torn corner of a poster. Then let it fall again—repeatedly, in syncopated flapping. A gritty dust swirled and fell out to the ground: its convoluted eddies a transient mark. All was silent or nearly so. A lemon-hued sun balefully surfaced through milky air. It was hot.
Serendipity converged in alternate morsels of vapid wisdom. There was little to learn from all that emanated from the day. Silent stilettos rode incessant rallies in lawns and greens. The stately stateless columns of capitol bore silent witness to the fall. Smoke drifted in uneasy whisps of softly buffeted idleness.
A dog of matted and yellow hue, slunk past sundry piles of mortar snow. The jaded screech of some wild gate, rent the air with jagged pain. An upturned palm lay on dusty ground, its lines revealed for none to see. Soddenly slumped, a watered heap of glamor clothing caught the spray of a ravaged hydrant.
Through open shutters a scene of tawdry quotidianity lay agape to sightless gaze. Five stalled and crumpled wrecks were lit—then not—by flashing neon metronome. The silence grew with every step he took—thirst and hunger now a dull insistent ache.
Across the salient dentellated sky, the ragged edge of broken masonry pierced the pall. The previous splendor of the stately walls he knew no longer stood. The fallen obelisks, in crumpled static leys, declared the end of cycles—of nights and days.
A startled starling winged across the dismal sky. Ten miles away a doe munched on tender shoots: the river flowed with timeless grace: a rabbit timidly paused at clearing's edge: an earthworm pinkly poked from out the sod: in countless signs the pace of life ticked on—the moon would rise again, as would the sun.