For Lucy, and for the turning of the soil.
…and just like that, the glorious pink and purple flourishes fade,
as “sunset” becomes greyscale clouds on an ever-darker horizon.
We walk next door,
to the supermarket that smells of bleach, medicine, and warm plastic,
the lighting reminiscent of the scene in which the tired travelers stop at a desolate gas station to purchase supplies from a clerk with tired, empty eyes.
There is a restless magic in the air,
the type that elicits an amused chuckle,
not exactly the shock and awe desired, but we play with the cards we are dealt.
Somewhere, the dried-out corpse of Nietzsche,
buried beneath mounds of soil, leaves, and stone,
does absolutely nothing at all.