A Middling

No one knew how high the trees grew or where the lines would end. In tight spaces surrounded by ignominious intentions, all who have entered here are crossed. There is the stain of a spirit smudged on these whitewashed walls. Glitter and tremble. In loving memory ladybugs know no more succor. Now debris and husks fallen and decanted. Flowers fold and bend gently touching earth. Dream of laughter and swings.

Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Vivaldi