day 15

summer ended before it began.

a black shadow fell all over the land.

no birds darted to tweet.

rain was a 37 year old

dream made of dusty tarpaulin. all firstborns hid playing fetch under beds

the sickle dropped them like fleas

trees moved roots, fled. time stood still. god......

forgot to breathe. the end came, took,

blamed. and yet. every thursday at exactly noon.

she waits. hands warmed by tea. eyes down refusing to

see. hint of sad on her lips

she already knows. because every thursday at exactly noon.

he disappoints.