The time
twists out.
It looks
for its tick
in the
remnants scattered,
the pieces,
the fragments
of glass
waged in places
torn of yesterday’s
glance.
I steal an
eager rose
because I
adore its scent.
We send letters
on the air,
watch them
curl and fly,
cascading
with the birds,
messengers of
the gods.
We wake and
fall.
It means
nothing at all.
Words play out
in a
backwards rhyme,
sands running,
running.
Poppies pale
without sunlight.
We fetch
water,
but the
world has run dry.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, September 5, 2020
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