poetry

gilded-glimmer exile

“It was before the train accident, when my husband died..”

She went on to tell a different story, one that had nothing to do with her husband. I half-listened, watching to see the silouhette memories of him walking beside her, reflecting in shining, mosquito-pond pupils, neither deep nor shallow, but teeming. She quickly drowned the few held remembrances of him in the black water, again, as she kept on talking, the valediction of her words pounding forward, riding rusty steel wheels toward sunset’s gilded-glimmer exile.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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