Creative Writing 5
Sitting by a sandy city’s bistro
at a spot of lunch not long past,
words crumbling from damp mouths
drop strings of stubborn thoughts
as if months of things said had not said truth.
a lack of touch implying an unwant of carrying on
clogs his throat with a swallow of a burning mint drink.
words said burnt through as hot mint slid, burning down his throat.
Standing, an instant changing
with a flip of a long, midnight braid stomping away
from a usual lunchstand and pair of chairs.
a crowd sounds as if it was lulling and numb
nothing was auditory but a sound of solid boots
clunking away on a sandy city’s rock path.
