Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2018
They drove out one night, on a whim. It was a sprawling thing; a shrine guarded by foreign collection, reconfigured and asleep on their feet. They crept through the open doors, tiny frogs and spiders and lizards littering every inch. A droning permeates from somewhere deep within. A discarded book upon the floor, not but records of sacrifice and lies to the dead. Suddenly, a spark. An inescapable glow, this mess of fire, growing brighter all the while. Now the tools, the taste, the tenor. A man gives what he can. The offering will take, or it won't. And you, with all those sticky fingers! They steal away again, homeward bound; the faintest remnants of that glorious spark dancing in their downcast eyes. It will take, or it won't. Everything is static, nothing stays the same. They know that nothing lasts forever.
Written by
Please log in to view and add comments on poems