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Jun 2018
The fire was black, today.
Ignited with the blood
of a man
who's someone else.
After it died
the coals danced purple
and snickered into
the nothingness.

Wind blew pears off
a tree
causing them to
fall sporadically
atop a shed's metal roof;
acting as the
night's percussion instruments.
The man pondered
the fragility of human life
and of applesauce.
Sylvester Hopkins
Written by
Sylvester Hopkins  23/M/Albany
(23/M/Albany)   
261
 
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