The lies that filled the night,
a contingent thread of peace
through omission.
Fear, a revving tide,
consolidated the radicals
it insulated, and robbed
the atmosphere of
its own gravity.
A smirk hidden
at the back somewhere,
hidden deep beneath
a mess of coif and
minstrel lyres,
the eyes reveal
the true souls of
liars, and the
hated words that
work their way
like festering worms
through snow.
The turgid corpse
of latter years
expires beneath
the crate myrtles.
It conducts its business
on the daily, collects its
dues from the restless and
spacey. It runs rails of solid
fire down their throats
and blinds them behind
the humid fumes of
lost innocence. Their
eyes are half blind
and clouded like
the deepest frost
crosses over icy
windows.

 

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“Night of the Deserters” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.