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 Oct 2020
Norman Crane
After autumn's leaves depart, the branches
hang like spiders after dark, impending
winter moons and ice: The night advances.
Silence echoes the silently standing
trees. Ravens sail upon the frosted breeze,
and the small burrow for the longest sleep.
A cold rain collects in puddles of unease,
The naked forest unobscures a deep
uncertainty about tomorrow,
And the foxes speak in quiet snowfall voices
of the days that were and will be hollow,
Lanterns light a carriage.              Doubt rejoices.
In the dusk black vegetation spreads like cracks
in glass. The carriage scratches tracks
into a muddy past.
 Feb 2019
mads
With delicate, yet awkward, fingers
I edge my way down my throat
And loosen the cut you made on my neck.
Nails crawl through my flesh
until I hear the strum of my failing violin, cat gut, vocal chords.
An ear drum bursting TWANG;
Reminiscent of the s c r e a m s
You forced from my bones.

My body twists around the thought of your
Gaze pounding down my spine.
You’ve buried your way into my skin,
A burdensome parasite I can’t shake, or dig out.
Despite the number of nails I break
And bones I dislocate.
 Dec 2018
Logan Robertson
In a shoe box he sits
Quietly watching the darkness
Sitting forlorned
He's a sneaker
A loafer
Tied in laces
And hidden in shine
Alone
As his eyelets sag
With hopes the light peeks in
An envelope
Finding his leather
If only he could feel a touch
A foot
Feet
Interaction
A women's toes that wiggle
On those cold and lonely nights
Where inhabitation brings comfort
If only
He
His shoes
It could be fitted and fulfilled
Tailored and shined
And not be a beaten path
With wishful thinking
Of a women's toes that wiggle
For now though
A shoe horn would be the panacea
His hope
From being shelved
Hidden
In a shoebox he sits
Looking at the darkness
At the four walls corrugated
In lost time
Oblivious
Of walking

Logan Robertson

11/24/2018
For some, life isn't roses. Red blossoms on sunny days. And others, him, sit watching the barren trees of the fall. In their obscurity they are torn.
 Aug 2018
Satsih Verma
Half-right, half-wrong-
faltering on altar,
I have come to-
pay back my debt.

The listening now stops.
Only unheard monologue-
will continue in void
wringing out the tongue.

The burning man will
not scream, even in ashes.
I did, what you did not.
I have cut off my thumb.

Looking at you nonchalantly
I pick up my thoughts in mess,
to stitch my death cap-
stepping out in dark.

All night it rained. I
will not leave any footprints.
 Jun 2018
Marsha Singh
the world aches to de-
light me – it shakes its
wild hair and struts; it
also lies and philanders
and sometimes it cuts.
 May 2018
Marsha Singh
I like when you
invent fire, when
you discover the sun,
when you say hush woman
hush, believe this – we are one
.
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