Silent killer

Hate knawls at me

Teeth chewing on leather

Absolving my indifference

Price of caring varies

But doing nothing is free

Time slips away like sand

You can’t see darkness

You can only sense empty

Despondent memories grow

Lingering to poison me

Souring the breaths I take

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Sunday Whirl – Way to the Top

Low and tight, I grab at tree roots. My simple gravel path trimmed to a knife’s edge. My eyes caught a climb away from vertigo inspiring view. A stomach in knots, joins other spreading pains like gingham pattern.

I grab a branch to rise, only to receive a pine scented water spray when it slips slowly away.

FFAW- They were French Fries

This week’s photo prompt is provided by wildverbs. Thank you wildverbs for our photo prompt!

“There’s a funny stone over here!” Derrick yells across Meadowhaven Gardens.

Julia grimaces his direction. She keeps thumbing through the guidebook. “What’s the point of reading about these people? You are jumping from place to place. These are real stories of what happened to these people. It’s so cool to think…”

“Hey, you got to see this one!” Derrick grows louder as if to wake the dead.

“Coming!” Julia finds row 15 in the book. “What’s the last name? …. Never mind I found it. Reginald Foster. He had heart attack while eating on Pier 9. His last words immortalized as ‘They were French fries!'”

104 words

Sunday Whirl – Sudden Trip

My hand skims the turbulent surface of Lake August. The electric motor whines as the minutes slide from the clock. My heart races. My cargo needs hiding. Daylight doesn’t creeps in to my view, revealing a tiny shed in a rugged lawn.

Who knew too much lust and a pillow could end this way.

Independence Day

Gentle flame dances

Upon unsettled winds

We see the light

It holds our way forward

Shadows will reach us

They tell us its dimming

But still the light glows

It has shown for generations

Twilight always brought tomorrow

Our faith rewarded every time

The flame speaks if we listen

It burns brightest against the dark

These truths are self evident

We are our own masters

But do we stay in the light

Freedom is ours to share

Distant Thunder

I look up to the skies

Sapphire blue stretches

Feathers of white scatter about

My eyes search for storms not there

My ears hear thunder still

Cool wind hints of moisture

It stirs humid stagnant air

Faint smells are carried to me

I know it but it still eludes identity

Still I hear distant thunder

The dryness of the soil calls

It speaks in cracks and groans

Once fertile harbor for floral beauty

Slowly the green leaves the landscape

It hopes it hears thunder

Forgotten Rain Gods watch on

Helpless as they are now nameless

Their tears no longer flow to the ground

Theirs is a hope that nature answers soon

They feel the distant thunder

Still I stare at the blue sky

Depth without substance again

I do not wish to curse the light again

My heart waits without patience

For that distant thunder

Nature Cries

Rain falls like tears

Soft splashes almost caress

Birds sing undercover of trees

Leaves glistening in overcast light

Rising smell of Earth

Breathing freely from dust

Wholesome color chases pallid crust

Flowers stands tall pedals fully back

Gentle rain soothes air

Breezes find their way forward

They wrap around all there is

Blistering Sun hides while life dances

Still falls light rain

Restoring what is needed

Watering future dreams and hopes

Begging you to dance within it touch

Resisting the Wind

I used to love the wind

The sound of a distant gale

It crawls towards you

Low pitch groans resonant

High pitch whistles scream

Then the seasons changed

Heavy growls thundered from the East

Shrieks wailed ripping upon open ears

Chaos divided the landscape in pits

Creatures barely known spew forth

They speak from boisterous tomes

Hallowed be their entitled repression

They call me brother

I cringe visibly

They call me problem

It comforts me

They weaponize my words

Incomprehensible to them

I sleep during the day

My dreams comfort my nights

Blocking out the wind

Price that sanity costs

Hope is in the change

Action soon will be needed

#resist

Sunday Whirl – Generations

“The spirit listens. What you breathe and what writing you place upon the sacred Earth matters.” Black Bear looks away as he talks following a cloud with his eyes. “Prosper is not an act. It dulls senses. Slowly, it digs through your years leaving holes.”

“So do I put this piece of malachite on Ebay or not?” Jessica looks at her Grandfather. Her vision of a few dollars rapidly disappears.

Hope

Behold little gem of light

I wish to hold it

My cupped hands warm

It spreads thinner across them

Finally disappearing into air

My eyes see light rays twinkling

As if magic dust created on touch

But it is gone away

In my heart I know its name

My nose traces little evidence

My ears deaf to its existence

But the glimmer of hope

Never fully fades from sight