When I’m not sure of the morning,
I think of time that passed us by.
How we all wait, and we wither
like prairie hills gone dry.
In sullen promise I’ll wait,
singing from this lonely height.
Tomorrow seems so furious—
like an incandescent lie.
When I’m not sure of the morning,
I blind myself with light
as a reminder that I’m caustic,
damn the stars if I’m right.
~
Victoria Osido, 2020
Artwork by: Vincent Abbang
תגובות