A hand to touch

A fit, to mask or shake just what

It is January or not

Time splinters off in a drool well

It rains or it stops raining

A sink clogs or it stops draining

The mask falls off

A new bouquet swells

A sneeze lets loose

In the house the animals stir

The print on the couch dwells

It lets go of its color

And the light fades

What color is that?

What moment is that?

What figure is drawn?

On what eyes?

A child yawns

A seat on the bus is closed

This light, This year, This hour

It multiplies itself by the word

It goes soup on the bowl

And the bowl draws near

Its color revealed

A kind sleep

A hellish dream

On my skin that sun goes orange

And I burn myself

And my eyes cave in

This horror of time clicks my heels

It laughs that laugh of cruel poses

Our dreams are not our collective

But submission is easier

When we pretend this together

A fantasy a clock

A hand designs hour not hands

A minute exposes cracks

A time forgets us

A stop

My eyes hurt

It is too much

Orange

© This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Words by Ryan Adams.

I’d like to thank you sincerely for taking the time to read this and I hope to feel your interest again next time.

AV