The road was like an arrow. It split and feathered off at the base of a forgotten pond. Crickets drank a silent meal of silver scum and oil; the surface punctured by specks of floating dust. Murmers floated through aching trees, sullen from years of neglect.
She knotted her damp hair in her fingers, felt sleeves too long to cover ancient scars.
Nothing but dust can fill this hunger.
She’s better, if her sanity doesn’t get to her first.
She heard a tingle of smoke rings as they grazed a pale morning of bird song surrendered. Judgment inside, without, within- retired retorts reigning recklessly; recurring riddles and rambles resigned to rain relentlessly.
No comments:
Post a Comment