the cicadas would call out in their shrill cry
indicating that summer was coming to fruition
a summer filled with the howling of the wolves
a season coming to the brim with the misshapen thoughts of youth
I remember feeling sick
or barely feeling anything at all
and I could recall seeing the smile upon your bright features fall towards the sadness that lie behind your eyes
you would disappear during that year
and in response to the police sirens and the noise of the approaching ambulances
the cicadas would call out in their shrill cry
YOU ARE READING
Crossing the dark moon
PoetryIt is up to every man to choose what path they follow. Whether it be in fairness or out of spite, the choice is up to the individual at the end of the road
