Black rain pours, we hold rituals dispelling death, not a partial second too late; a surgeon gives instructions on removing the PVC pipes clogging our hearts; men grieve their youth and learn to love the shadows in the mirror.
When the sun rises—and the sun never fails to rise—clouds burn with the urgency of a fever dream, breaching shadows and streetlights, the smoke and sublime; we wake; we hope; we march as one and fold light into the farthest sides of the moon.
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A short fiction anthology
Collections of poetry & Prose