It was the last sign.  A crease in the weather

where the beginning blends into a final draw,

submitting to the curtain of seasons.


A pocket full of pressed parables circled

within the eventide of lost logic and

faded common sense.


The sky shouldered misted illusions casting

shadows onto the plains of wide deserts

and unnamed valleys.


We were overburdened with empty thoughts

hanging on the trellis of minced words

and half promises.


A campfire formed a veil of flames competing

with the coolness of an early night sky.  We

huddled close, warming our hands. Our eyes

reflecting ancient colors.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s