The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is omen.
As darkness evolves I hold on to what is burnished and clear.
As Adam and Eve expel from their garden-temptation must always fall, my Friday is full of qualm.
So the woman eats, and gives to the man who also eats.
"Upon your belly you shall go, and dust you shall eat all the days of your life."
Subservient to man, childbirth, the pain within.
My dreams sense death.
Naughty flies come in in the cold.
A fiend, feasts on dead things.
A bat strays still in the corner of my room.
I spill minuscule sands of salt, as I send it over my shoulder.
I remember a man who once spoke of Halley.
A shooting spirit, visible twice to the most naked eye.
"I came in with Halley's comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Halley's comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt: 'Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.'"
And then Mark Twain died on 21 April 1910, the day following Halley's subsequent perihelion.