The sands of time are falling
like messengers--winged beasts
which fortune nothing less than a miracle.
They swap stories with the outcasts,
painting the world in a cloud of dust.
They are nomads and no-ones and lovers.
Installing blue skies,
they dream in colors unknown to man.
Wings carved like scars into their backs,
crisscrossing like tire treads in the mud,
they eat hazelnuts from the ground,
break them open and drink the liquid,
not bothering to turn them into thorns
from bushes that grow and snake their way about their collarbones.
They are the nomads. The killing squads. They shoot expectation in spades.
--a thundering herd of beasts,
waiting for just one more beast to join them.
About the Creator
Melissa Armeda
Sometimes-poet. Sometimes-novel writer. Lover of food and pets of any kind.
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