Distant now the echo,
Transmuted from chaos to a bearable rising tide.
The waves form infantile crests,
Easily surmountable.
The sound gives rise,
but I am coherent.
Like some organic filter,
I am here and well.
Call to me old one,
I listen to it fade.
Propagation has become a distant choir,
Like a calm sunrise.
I casually mount my steed of flames,
I would dare to say I am unfazed.
No distortion of time,
No augmented reality.
I am here and well,
I release all the bestial haunt.
The brutish spectre is gone,
This hound of the burial mound,
Chased no more.
I am here and well....
About the Creator
Joe Joe
Finding myself again. In recovery, and remembered how fond I was of writing and poetry. I made many attempts to write books on an old typewriter years ago. I miss that sense of a world inside of me just bursting through my skull.
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The Spring
The sun was high when Lance pulled off the road and into the dusty lot of the service station. The sign back at the hairpin--the first sign in a long time--said they just rolled into Hatter’s Creek, Population 63. It was small enough it didn’t appear on the handmap in Shelby’s lap, yet here it stood, the first backwater township on the fringes of the National Park. The plan was to gas up, restock the snack bag, and press on into the wilderness.
By Zack Graham5 days ago in Fiction
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