by Loren Haas

The smoke screen; breathe it in
Taste the virulent sulfur
Choking, suffocating
The toxins are familiar
Retch on the morose tar
The stench burns at your nostrils
Sticking to your drained skin
This viscid smog is hostile
Your knees shake and buckle
Your heart trembles in your chest
A guttural screech rips
Out from your frail, gasping breast
Black dots dance in your eyes
All else has already drowned
Fall forward; fall empty
To be greeted by the ground

The Book

Isabella Burlingame

The book dries her tears,
it keeps her company.
The book calms her
anxious mind
and tells her everything
will be okay just to see
her rare, beautiful smile.
Her normally haunted eyes
light up with each turn of
its tattered pages.
The book makes her forget,
it makes her disappear from
her world-until
she reaches the part of
the book she despises,
the dreadful last page.
The girl looks up and
she realizes that
her treasured book
lied to her once again.

2:55 A.M.

Kaitlyn Marlowe

At 2:55 a.m., not even the songbirds have woken to share their joyous harmony.
At this hour, the last call is said and lost souls whistle through their whiskey covered lips trying desperately to venture home.
At a time like now, there is a still in the moonlit air where only night owls should be hunting their prey.
At moments frozen as these, I should be trapped in a solace penumbra, fast asleep, with my mind dancing through shimmering streets.
But, as I lay here restless, listening to the calm beat of my heart, my imagination drifts to a locus I dare not recollect.
As I drift into a slumber, I commemorate the taste of your rough lips brushing against my soft cheek.
As I repose, your steady hands feel warm across my chilled back.
As I marvel at the though of you, I look into your pastel blue eyes and see the gentle longing to take all that I am willing.
As I wonder when I will be reunited with my love, my heartbeat skips and disturbs it’s sanctifying rhythm and I sink into a cherished languor where I may wake hand to hand, chest to chest, and lips to lips with the one I call my beloved.

In The Fading Light

By Kaitlyn Marlowe

The fading light
Falling over the field of memory
Years in shadow
Years reflected in the glassy eye of a silent pond
Years in retrospect
Driving in reverse over gravel roads
A greyed-out dead-end sign
This is the past
This is the present
The future is bright and the shade passes over yesterday
And I am standing with one foot in the light.