
sketch: human on human on human

make a space for silence
to then flood it with my words
much more art than science
and it’s usually gonna hurt
yank at every thread to find
the one that might unfurl
careful with that ax, Eugene,
I think I’m gonna hurl
roaches all float to the top of the tub
I’ve long since scarred up my face
portentous purchases, something to love
fleeing from time into space
losing my taste
for this space
and its mighty
rhymes
of a kind
that I can’t reproduce!
logan bright, works, poem, poetry, taste, space, rhymes, reproduce
plenty of material has piled up around
the working space, and working day
it runs into the ground
the water’s dry, the jar’s a mess
(already drank it down)
two more days and then I’ll trade
my smile for a frown
Abianarin did not dream. Her sleep was a vast black expanse, with the barest smudges and pinpricks of light and random intervals — impossible to see, scarcely perceptible at the edges of her senses. She floated in this space, an eternity of gentle, motionless rest, until some ancient part of her knew it was time to wake up.
She stretched, yawned, and packed her things. The others were already up, and each one looked haunted — but none moreso than Abia herself.