Thoughts, Stories, The Poem
It’s easy to imagine this desert is left over from some apocalypse, and the AC blasting across our faces is a shield against the fallout.
Mitchel David Ring
When rains of summer fall and wind howls from the sea…
On a coast battered and bruised we stand and search for distant visions…
Each moment must die before the next is born…
If you look closely enough the windows come alive with lights burned out long ago…
The same sky over grey seas watched the crossing, the slow voyage…
The past is a fever dream, washing ashore with driftwood…
Too much is barren or wilderness to know what shadows lie between…
My grip tightens on every passing thought— squeezing them, waiting for meaning to pour out…
There was no bullet through the night…
Carried by a single breath across the sky…
Dragged through shards of himself by a withered hand of glory…
That voice of woodland shadow was laden with imagined death…
gather in the valley between night and day…
Rain falls soundless on withered fields…