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...

The maroon clouds press through the hills
like a lung dying and collapsing. The landscape
is a chest torn in half.
The king asked me to the top of his hill
before the sun broke. Asked me to stand
and face the wind. Below are towns sleeping
in surreal greys and blacks. He asks me, do you feel
each rain drop individually? No, I say.
Do you know every person in these towns? No.
I do, he breathes. My mind is a furnace, he starts,
getting rid of everything it acquired. Piece by piece. I am old,
and I am permitted the present only.
There are no more bats, because the blackbirds
are awake and whispering into night.
He asks me to prepare one horse and we shall travel
by foot, to the face of the coast. I tell him, ok.
Ok.
Written by MrAlptraum (Mr A)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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