- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
- Tags: autumn, creativewriting, death, fiction, flashfiction, foliage, iamwriting, igpoems, igpoets, igwriters, instawriter, leaves, love, microfiction, mobileartistry, newengland, poem, poet, poetic, poetry, poetsofig, shortstory, story, storyteller, trees, writer, writersofig, writing
TIMELAPSE
Clocks spent their winding hands as if they were folded on felt, minutes wasted in an ante and the litter of this dying season trying to hide belief. No poker face here, faded bliss grows vibrant, a flashbulb churn of willingness gone like green lost to autumn. And the combat of seconds clashing now into disdainful futures has casualties on all sides, but with each lost there’s no accountability. Does anyone count each grain of sand fallen in the hourglass? The souls flit like expired leaves on the shakiest branch, the gales of whimsy, lust and adoration buoying them on air currents the way a lover’s kiss lightens steps. And yet all bets are off, time ruined by attempts to measure it. For days are prison cells and years are maximum insecurity. Bleed divine colors. There’s no moment but now to do so.
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