snowglobe songIt grew in lightless dissonance. The perfect balance of warmth and wetness which would deform any suckling and birth putrescence. Here, in the dank depths of hope deferred, it grew.They formed it with their broken voices and it strained to hear every lost syllable. Between the fragmented sounds, a constant; a muffled whisper of a melody. It sank as though it were made to exist beneath those muddy refrains.Little mocking bird, born without a song of its own. It stapled grounding reasons to each feather and chirped a scratched-out song to dandelions in the place of clouds. Rough notes swept across the seeds. A coarse melody was reborn in those colorless tufts, which suffocated every living thing on the small bird's horizon. The sullen snowglobe burned brightly as creatures tried to breathe under the ungodly weight of a once insignificant song.