Christopher Allen Ling

Lacie Note

Her essence is of autumn looking this way with cool air.

Our eyes have mingled to an amber crisp, scattering some instinct to the season across the template of the afternoon sun.

Whispers...

Its her I'm gravitating towards. I find myself no longer a hunter and boundless.

Instead...

I'm trapped in thought . The most random imaginary details, like scattered leaves across the road. And, breezing through her country hair. The look you hold where I can feel my edges begin to revolve around you.

Anonymous

And you said, "What if he's deceased? At least you'll know." Rushing off to work.

My mind flashed a full scene of southern sunlight on my face. You shut the front door,

and

I sat in front of a tombstone. Maybe in Kentucky. Not reading a name, or anything engraved Just thinking of what I might say to my father.

Neutral thoughts shake bitterness from an unshaken hand; and I peer into a tombstone, same as I might peer into the void of someone's eyes.

"All my life I have seen you in the mirror. Never have I seen your face. Do you know what one picture could have done, for one man- Your Son!"

Inspiration

I can hear it like a gentle swerve of cold wind sweeping along the side of the house. I like the shadows cast from the books leaning on the nightstand. There isn't a voice from the authors; just a scratching sound of interests uninitiated- Mine. And to me the novel stays closed in my hands. Bookmarks lost in the binding of life not imitating art. On a single piece of paper the world can lay flat, and from one corner to the other someone could be listening, and someone could be storytelling. Its all in invisible ink written in the womb. Literature is never reborn but is constantly reinventing itself in audible sounds- like the scratching and meddling clamor of a quiet evening pushing against the side of the house.