- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
- Tags: autumn, creativewriting, fiction, flashfiction, foliage, forest, iamwriting, igpoems, igpoets, igwriters, instawriter, microfiction, mobileartistry, newengland, path, poem, poet, poetic, poetry, poetsofig, shortstory, story, storyteller, woods, writer, writersofig, writing
These bones roll the way forgiveness does from the tongues of mothers, effortless, but with care. And the shell of potential clangs like dusty canastas, the hollow of escaped souls lingering the way the sense of a last kiss might. This path winds and welcomes, but the end rarely in sight plays to that whimsical mood of noon in Summer, when the world spills promise light golden sunshine and the air clings like a young lover’s embrace. Eyes strain for the end in sight, and the rattle of pour us lightens frames, air slipping like lust into the hollows of uncertainty. Why not? Just go, slip fingers beneath lace and find the warm wet of opportunity welcome like rapturous balm that covers but never heals. In time every scar fades to dust, every cracked support sheds pressure and purpose. And into the ground these shallow complaints sink, like dill seed searching for stalk, as if somehow the groan will win sunlight and favor. But instead the roots surrender to sharp bitterness, the tart of accumulated experience stinging eyes. Play drums on these here leavings, the deposited shell of romance and rancor. For it’s all that’s left to keep a beat with a heart lost on the road to ruin long ago.
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