The words flow across the page.
Who will hear them?
Will they make a difference?
Will they reach anyone?
When Pink Floyd asked if there was anybody out there, was this what they meant?
How far is our, or my, reach?
Will I tickle someone's consciousness in some way?
Will it be good if I do, or very, very wrong?
How far does our story-writing karma reach?
Shakespeare's work, though he is hundreds of years gone, still touches us today.
Do we, I, have any chance of a fraction of that reach?
And if I do, will I look back on eternity and be proud of my echo,
or want to shrivel into a ball in a corner, cringing and crying at my words?
God, please let it be the former, for I love my family so.
YOU ARE READING
Time is Precious
General Fiction© 2019, 2020, 2022 & 2023 Written by A. E. F. All Rights Reserved. A collection of flash fiction that vibrantly celebrates life. ON-GOING 2020: Achieved #1 in the "Older Adult" category. 2019: *Achieved #1 in "Autobiographical". *Achieved #1 in "S...
