Trembling as I try to warm myself with a memory.
A flash and a buzz and
a word I’ve left in a sea of them.
How I prized the beautiful, the tragic, the fear.
So quick to die,
so bright still that I watch for it in such a starless sky
drifting further and further.
Even now its shadow stains the inside of my eyes.
My voice is raw. My arms are weak.
No smell and no taste,
only ever (and just sometimes) thought of.
Who are we now? What is left?
- 2,817 people have actually read stuff here, which is pretty good. Some people would even call it fairly good, but whatever. I'm not going to tell you how impressed you should be.
All work created on this website by Brenton C Smith is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at thestsp.wordpress.com.
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