SEE THE FLASHVERSE
Well, here we are again. Bags by the door, hours away from a departure.
One that SHOULD have happened at 20:50 .... Saturday.
Last night, tonight, yesterday
The Hour of The Wolf, he calls it, a bleak solitude. ...
.... And it creeps ...
it creeps, he says, these thoughts, this inexplicable
... I dunno.
Tomorrow, Next Month, Next Year
Bags packed by the door.
Awake at the Hour of the Wolf
Legends spoken over the campfire, stories about people.
All of us matriculating in their brief
beginning, middle, end
the hero, the villain, the conscience, the hubris, the nemesis,
the innocent, the mysterious, the magical, the alien, the teacher,
the renegade, the fop, the bright star burning fierce, the spectre,
Wafting in, out of each other, at 3:43 AM, without time or place or reason.
How sweet are the pockets of moments
the ones we encounter
when even the Hour of the Wolf cannot creep
under the skin, the heart, the mind; yes, those rare pockets
when a story comes to life
for one, two, maybe more
to be shared, to be known only to myself or yourself
stories come to life, breathing for us,
breathing new life into
whatever pocket of moment
we are so lucky to glimpse
gentle caress
sweet lingering kiss
it's not all so bad,
not all of it
FLASHVERSE III, Untitled
Copyright Kimberly Cox, 2011
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