The Sound of Ink

  I love dragon fields spewing August dust into rain barren clouds.   The anger of summer at the end of its rope is theater I understand.   Inevitable chokes with its curse, and the rib shredding of change doesn’t earn our applause.   Sisters of sun and steamed pudding moon we know Autumn will soon arrive to taunt us with winter. ©Susie Clevenger 2020 The Sunday Muse #121

We’re praying between bullets, fed pepper to season our screams, and dodging puppets who dance on an orange string.   Change came like a lion, stalked our lungs, then locked us down in a twitter nest of failure.   What will we look like when hell is over? When tomorrow doesn’t arrive with a black coffin sun?    ©Susie Clevenger 2020 Friday Flash 55