The dance of confusion

The blackness of the night
Silently strips the rose
Of its dress of pretty petals

The stillness of the night
Epitomized by the sedan,
Sad to be lonely and cold

Above it, a swarm of insects
Do their dance of confusion
Around their God, the street light

And the boy staring out his window
Studying, instead of Frost and Whitman,
The rose, the sedan and the bugs

If only they didn’t write in tongues
So he could complete his paper
And get a deserved good night’s sleep

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About fictionfuture

An experiment in minimalist fiction View all posts by fictionfuture

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