the white birds

If this is the day before noon,
I have wasted my chance to live.
The ocean of our forefathers dances
away from my toes; the town is sinking
from the horizon. My feet carry
a million years of dust north,
further north until I am alone
at the tip of the world.
Water is everywhere but behind me,
and with one more step I will fall
into it, ( Read more... )

( Read more... )

The sky hasn’t opened in over a decade. Just a dust bowl of a city is left - deserted, mostly. The residents have moved on to some place better, some place with water, perhaps. We used to theorize where they all disappeared to. Some days it'd be Vienna, and the next it'd be France-- whichever suited our fancy, really. There is just the two of us ( Read more... )