He is
The mellowness of a Billy Holiday song,
Softly playing in a candlelit corridor.
Shadowy silence of spaces yet to be explored.
A man
seen in small fragments,
Wrapped in the hardness of life.
He is
a song sang in the heat of surrender, a symphony
played in the depths of extascy.
The reason for
The sweetness on my tongue, the wetness
Between my thighs,
The yielding whisper of fantasy
Interweaved with the pounding bass line of my craving.
Saved and replayed in unexpected places
About the Creator
Disarmament
They say there's no atheism in the foxhole. While I wasn't currently neck-deep in a river of soft sediment, I was still praying to whoever would listen. Why am I doing this again? I would ponder while staring at the device that in no less than a minute could be my undoing. I scanned each and every variable panel and commonplace button as I watched the bright red L.E.D ticker countdown. No wires to cut, no code to put in, there was only one way to stop this infernal machine, and that incurred perfect timing.
By James U. Rizzi2 days ago in Fiction
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