The man In the Shed

The ClockMaker

I wind my clock, wrapping it around the neck of my ancestor. I look at the face of my relative, suffocated by passions and clogged with unrealized dreams. The doctrine of doing without children seeing led to an oppressive afternoon, where the sun peered at me through the window, and familial blood, congealed by lust, exerted itself within me.

Say nothing when she returns. She cannot know or even suspect. We all live around hollow castles, built on the security needs bestowed upon us by small children.

I remind you of this past where I imprisoned your spirit and blackened your heart, turning your garden into a swamp where nothing will ever take root, and sterility will remain the eternal salt of the earth.

In the wide avenues made of the fabric of your denials, woven with robust convictions in their emptiness, you do not see the narrow corridor, the threshold where you walk, nor the corner where you are trapped.

Life under constant compression finds relief in the sudden dispersal provided by the closed double barrel gun.