A Poem

Resenting the world for what it isn’t, we tread on twisted sidewalks, only ever touching our shadows, always cast so heavily on the bare shoulders of these alleys.

And the way the lamp flickers from within its glass case — how could the wind have reached it? Or is it a breeze from a life passed that throws the mortal flame into its dance? But what of this life, how could it be touched so?

We listen for thunder on these cloudless days. Hollowed out by the sound of our own footsteps, we pray the lightning strikes us. We pray we find something here where we know you never were.

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