Month: January 2017

Closed windows

Inside our homes
our hives
we live together
alone
sampling every now
and then
a taste we do not
like

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The Storyteller

Calloused hands flick the pages. Crisp they turn, a sound so slight. Touched a thousand times, yet the ply still holds, the stories still keep. His feet shuffle on the floorboards, the chair creaks as he shifts forward. Clears his throat. Looking up the room is empty. Dust catches in the late sun. Shadows dance in the eves. A slice of sunlight sits warm on his face. He closes his eyes. Slowly swallows a choke. Lifting the book he inhales that damp familiar scent. His book. His stories. His eyes open and there they sit, waiting. Waiting for their story. A story to share. Another adventure. Another page turned. He begins. Listen now.

His Cold Caress

Winter is hungry, again. He coats the town in silver, a glisten as he bares his teeth. His cruel wind biting at hands, turning, chasing, snapping wildly. He sees you walking through the morning frost. Welcomes you with an unforgiving slap in the face. Pinching, pulling, grasping with his savage hold. Head down you power on. Slipping on his silver, dancing to his song. He is strong. He is power. Each step is hard. Each step is fierce. Bitter cold. The sun gleams. Weak in the winter. The sun gleams. Pastel powder breaking slowly. Breaking. Slowly.