Genius

A sultry wind swept through the sun deprived chasms, two brown bears struggling against the harshness of the winter.

A swarm of bees fly across the air in hopes of finding the ideal spot for their hive and for their queen.

A duck walks across the dew-stained grass, balls of fluff following behind with great hopes.

"Isn't life beautiful"

I've this saying many times over the course of my life.

But life is brittle.

My mother used to have a set of china plates she kept in a special display case near my dining table.

Iridescent colors and blending of blues and oranges and reds

Their beauty must have touched my mother.

But plates are brittle, and one day they came crashing down.

It was a force of nature, when two clumsy feet tripped on a dog toy strewn across the ground.

I still remember the color of the world.

A kaleidoscope.

Isn't life the same:

I hear the whimpers of two bears as they sit out and stare at the vast expanse of winter.

I taste the honey of the hard working bees, their long hard fruits of labor taken for my enjoyment.

I see an angel's death, crimson red feathers resting on a tar-road.

I feel the little knives of little goblins and dwarves piercing into my skin, their daggers an iridescent blending of blues and oranges and reds.

I must be a genius to describe things so well.

Not one of luck or hard work.

I've told myself time and time again.

Genius is in my blood,

My bones, my skin, my eyes, my heart.

Each drop of lifeblood I feel, I know.

Genius smells like blood.