A small girl paints orange rain not knowing it’s fire.

Her father tells her that goldfish are falling from the sky.

Shortfalls of logic become pillows when the voices of the dead echo against the slate of darkness.

The threshold from sleep can be arduous before hours of tangle.

When the brain slips under mud, it’s difficult to form sentences, become someone.

In an unknown city, identity is stolen by cracked sidewalks.

The wallet traded for a computerized watch, but the password purposely forgotten.

My new name is Joy, Storm, Willow, Saturday; my eyes are fading against the incalculable sum.   

Gunshots in the distance, hardly noticeable at all, but perimeters are porous.

Strangers will commiserate as if they’ll be friends but will never see each other again.

The Book of Sorrows placed on the highest shelf that requires a missing ladder.

After a singular parade for clarity, some of the pages were ripped and burned for everyone.

The Dictionary of Longing secured under the bed where the cat hides when it rains.

When the limelight tree has been pruned, an abandoned bird’s nest presents its circular intricacy.

The opera singer dies singing, and the mime will finally speak of meadows.

This entry was posted in General. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *