The one happening;
which never happned.
A slice of mock invasion on inner sanctum to find your own name.
Who were you?
A mind not on the mend? A house you were not living in?
The forecast was wary of strangers.
A deadly intent was hurling
the desires onto the stones of eyes.
A fog hides the melt.
You were not ready for syntax,
a rhyme breaks into sobs.
Washed by pain, a sting
becomes the poem.
Satish Vera
Sophie picked out a few items while Caleb followed closely behind running his eyes over every corner of the supermarket as they moved.
"Are you always like this?" Sophie asked.
"Always like what? "
"You know. Uptight. You've been looking around as though you are anticipating something bad to happen."
"Oh. No. Sorry about that. But we can never be too careful."
