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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More stories from Melissa Armeda and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Golden Valley
The difference between light and dark could be as quick and simple as a flip of a switch, the drawing of a curtain, the opening of one’s eyes. It could be more gradual like the slow adjustment of the diaphragm on a microscope, the turn of a planet on its axis, the growing light as you approach the end of a tunnel. A flicker in the dark, a steady glow in the distance, a flash in the night sky.
By Alyssa Nicole6 days ago in Fiction
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Striking!