Cold front is you on the morning I cut through mist. Around the park where old men wave their wooden swords in unison, blunt-edged glory boiling in their veins. I tread a path of oval stones to haunt the trees, reading their names & spirits to make them my allies.
I must reach my stop before the sun scorches my eyes.
Since you passed out from too much alcohol in my bed, I have turned it into an ummarked grave. I shoveled dirt over your blonde hair fused with grey, your blue eyes burnt by past phantoms while you ran up the tower you built around yourself, panting, holding onto me for lights from a distance. Every step of yours made me cringe; it made me run to that snowy landscape where a fox smiled & flitted past, a reminder of your false love.
Now I must run to the last tree I could find & wrap my arms around it. Only its embrace could save me.
One of your best short works. I am gobsmacked, as the Brits say, over the line: Around the park where old men wave their wooden swords in unison, blunt-edged glory boiling in their veins.
ReplyDeleteI don't know if you need black magic, but whatever magic brought this out of you ought to be good enough.
Yes, most definitely YES.
ReplyDeleteHey guys. Thanks.
ReplyDelete@Don - I wrote a bunch of these (including this one) for that writing challenge A Year of Flash. Just that you didn't click on the links when I posted them back in the days, ha!