Like a disembodied cloud spoils what's left of the day, a ghost slips through the cracked closet when she closes the floor to a trapdoor—thick droplets of blood trickle the length of the rusty blade of a knife she gripped quite tight. An escape she makes through a route she'd well planned out. An out-of-control lane she downshifts changes as gears stick to the roof of her mouth—a phone that of her own plays his ringtone. Her nostrils flared and a bitter smile filtered through a brisk September skyline, tasting the divine with dead air.
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The Lonely Position of Neutral
PoetryBen's throat cancer has returned. Living a lonely life, he found a woman he loves but finds out she's been unfaithful. Ben starts to think the lonely position of neutral isn't that bad. He writes poems and dialogue narratives. Will Ben survive cance...
