There is Nothing More

Pretense served on half shells in summer hallways flowing with warm breeze curtains in the dusty afternoons of helplessness.

Birds startled, awake to shotgun symphony, spring from trees like paint from Jackson’s brushes, then tethering back to simple and familiar. Unquestioning.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

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

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com 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 )

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: