- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
- Tags: creativewriting, dovernh, dusk, fiction, flashfiction, forest, goldenlight, igpoems, igpoets, igwriters, instawriter, microfiction, mobileartistry, newhanpshire, poem, poetic, poetry, poetrycommunity, poetsofig, shortstory, story, sunset, winter, woods, writer, writersofig, writing
Covered. Cold. Sin is in season. Disbelief in the evidence. Laid out and direct. Like sunlight on a cloudless day. Blinding. But obscured by the thick frost of derision, that chill of hate for the mirror that can’t crack soon enough. Right there. A blind man could see it and yet, reason vanishes and the tumble wins. The suffering. Embraced. Grunting long into midnight. Sweating hard agitation when softness attempts to lull. The muffled honey voice of care and blessing. There. All around. Unmistakable and then failure. Communications down. Hypnotic livewires skittering across wet avenues begging for mercy. Against these titanic beliefs. These etched-in-stone commandments that won’t crumble, shatter, sift into forgettable sands but instead cast the fiercest, suffocating shadows. Sinking unimaginable black. Sea bottom agonies. Crushing. Hear that. Hear it. A siren wails longingly. But these stones in these pockets are home. Unrisen. Drowned.
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