Dean F. Hardy
Writer and poet from Dublin, Ireland.
Lovers, drunks, crazies and the left behinds. Humans. These are the subjects I'm drawn too.
Hope you are too.
*All work here is owned by Dean F. Hardy*
Atticus Black. A glassy reflection to it that made him think of beached whales, slick with oil after a tanker spill. He blew smoke down into it and watched it swirl and linger like a fog. Slowly, it faded and the features of his face reappeared in disjointed form, fragmented in the rippled liquid. Fragmented, he thought. Pulled apart. The liquid settled further and his face came into clear view within it. Broken. He pulled on his cigarette, exhaled and brought the coffee to his lips.
The river mirrors whatever looks upon it. The river is, You.