Passé
by cereseithne
The tenement on Blanc Summery Hills
whiffed of bubblegum and royal honey,
that used to reek of those late-night
undercooked jjamppong and tangsuyuk.
And oftentimes, fumes from blistered
and charcoal-like failed sauces that
almost set the whole edifice on fire;
cooking as the terrible burning brands.
Those were the cherished little whiles
we feel like we were walking on air,
but voidness hollowed the space
as if not a single thing transpired there.
YOU ARE READING
A Voyage to Anthemoessa
PoetryLonely, we blazed through the precipitous trails of our perennial springs as though we were not distinctively dwellers of our own lands. Its conundrums, which oftentimes hit us like combers, we endeavor to embark on to illuminate its intricacies. We...
