In our youth we had nearly found
All the reasons not to believe
in anything
Anymore
The voices were reaching out to us
across the dormant wind
The curve in the air like a whirling dervish
It was not late enough for the shadows to die
Not yet
Across the garden I would tell myself
Remain empty
That nothing may replenish you It comes back
Sometimes just a click
But this time the distant sun has burst
The once-swift birds are dead
Their feathers fall like scraps of a girl's dress
As the last flit of light crosses the window
Love, rage
Nothing is foreign
Yet here everything vanishes
About the Creator
Timothy James Lane
Sea Ghost
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The Block Mayor
Like every warm day, Terrence is finishing this day on his L-shaped porch, sipping whisky from a dented flask. Cars pass by slowly, and he watches young women pushing babies in strollers; he hears the neighbors’ arguments and knows which have a regular income and those who are unemployed. Terrence is the self-appointed block mayor, laying judgment on his fellow folk.
By Andrea Corwin 5 days ago in Fiction
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