The
wind whistles over washed-out fields
I
have spent countless days searching
Amidst
tall dead grass
And
dust-smothered railway shacks
For
any trace of her
Alive,
or otherwise
A
raven watches
Perched
atop a weathered fencepost
His
gaze is cold and direct
Suddenly
distracted by something on the stones of the tracks
Flashing
in the noontide sun
The
carrion eater takes flight
as
I approach
A
fragment of glass
Convex
and iridescent
Inherently,
I know it belonged to her
This
whole thing reeks of misplaced time
I
am still no closer
This
has gone on for years now
I
don’t believe it will ever end
(from the forthcoming poetry collection, Standing on the Threshold of Madness, to be published by Parallel Universe Publications.)
.jpg)
