A
soft
ripple
shifting
beside us
inside time
outside mine
creating slides
falling downside
up and out-lifting
slipping seconding
minutely bleed fine
slowing soft sheens
gradually reverses
unrehearsed lines
drifting internal
infernal dying
denying sift
and scour
last hour
bending
curving
stirring
slurring
wording
returning
a parabolic
parasite light
night flies wait
in-satiate blurring
until suddenly cuts.
About the author
Seb Reilly
Writer, fiction author and occasional musician.
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Life is a silent illusion
Life is a silent illusion. When I wake up, in the gap of time, I think of those past events that seem far away again. Perhaps everyone has a city in their heart, where the undead are buried. There are their own stories, their own scenery, far or near, happy or sad, and then choose to forget or bury.
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