Swelter
The swelter of tight chasing shadows,
aflame in their hunger
and the eager rage
of wide ranging sparrows,
picking,
pecking,
up to their neck
in
the spectacle
of wrecked will
aging behind flesh
spilling over with fantasy
of happiness,
still
the walls fall dormant,
no ecstasy in escape from form,
mourning voids which remain unfilled,
a stain, we are,
born
to quick thrill, unstable,
unable to avoid the swift chill
and daunting shift
from oxygen
to something else,
a felt haunting
worn
like internal clothing
splitting stitches,
our riches are passed by,
roaming, we die,
striving for a warm fold
in the bustling chambers
of the heart,
before the cold edges
of nothing
completely tear us apart.
T J MCGOWAN is a Bronx based writer who has been published in Flash Fiction Mag, Collective Unrest, and 35MM, with a forthcoming publication in Mojave Heart. He spends his days as an Associate Producer for a Film & TV company, contributing to script and copy on most creative projects.
Image via Pixabay
The Cabinet of Heed 