Up the mountain, highway stretching
into drive-through clouds
lying low, dusting mist onto the trees,
making the world feel quiet, hushed
into opacity, obscuring not concealing
farms and fields, a forgotten plow
rusting near a barn full of the past,
the weight of waste crashing the loft
designed to support hay, not heydays.
Can a memory break its neck,
paralyze the past, suspend what was
in eternal traction with no IV
to drip saline into blood
while briny water leaks from eyes
that never could see clearly?
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Ekke Ekke Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing!
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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