Within the weeds
blowing,
Blowing in the sky
swaying,
The papillon wings
sifting.
The cloudy sky
Crying down in cold tears
Pouring down, spatter.
The way of life rots
away, like bedtime
cots, the rotting bed
withers, the dust rots
also, from no use.
Morning echoes
Calling for the children,
The sun rises bright.
Momentary silence.
This article is under the CC-BY-NC-ND-SA license.
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I am a poet, short story, novellette, and novella writer. Genres in the past I've written include Time Travel, Post Apocalyptic, Cyberpunk, and GameLit. I briefly ventured into Slipstream, and now circling back into writing GameLit fiction with literary elements.
Nowadays I simply want to write, and not worry about genre.
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