She moves slowly, her steps silent as muffled cries
It wasn’t a promising moment for the Kid; he could see a future failing
Whatever you feel comfortable doing,
is the thing you will not be asked to do
Over yonder in the roomy corner of the mindful awakeness of late afternoon,
one might share a moment of tenderness that flees like a scared insect
Shows her his magic move and wonders how he will ever explain,
the lack of mystery in who he truly is
Beliefs like that take hold in the fetid imagination that festers in the dark silence
Until the most littered tracks of what once was real,
fade to decaying rap sheets of crimes committed out of bloody whimpers
Line creeps forward until it can clearly be seen
That the calling has been nothing more than parroted chatter from a distant eon
Off it all glides
The night reforms around the fading embers of life
Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.