Night is sinking, fluttering to earth as black paper. August looms
like a shadow, a ledge that will inevitably interrupt my fall. My guilt is definite.
Prophecies aren't blotchy ink on parchment or printed pages and stamped signatures,
they're the words engraved in our hearts and minds. I'll die on a Friday.
Stars click into existence with regularity. It would be a gift to burn so
brightly and still be silent, to have sputtered out of the sky
a thousand years ago, and still shine. There is no breeze to caress
my forehead, no gentle hand to guide me once I am blindfolded. I'll
crawl around on my knees, feel in the dark for the chopping block,
and even if minutes pass and I don't find it I'll
never make a sound.
---
My first try at poetry. ^_^ That doesn't mean you can't be harsh on it, though. I know it's not good, but hopefully it's an okay starting point.
