What Remains of Us.


Looking ahead
to where the field
is a freeze-frame
after the fire,
the sun persists
in the golden season
of the dried and crackling.
For now, I don’t
see past the
browned pastures
and the desert
I imagine
that lies beyond
for its lack of
what lives and
lives on.
But in my dreams,
where colours always matter,
the sun is rounding
the bend, gleaming amber,
being where it’s
always been,
for what of us
remains. – TS

4 thoughts on “What Remains of Us.

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