We flush essentials down the drain,
Only half-truths get repurposed.
Where does the waste go
When it can no longer be shoved,
Hidden beneath the surface?
Backed-up throats and clogged minds,
Hearts synced to the ticking of time.
Wide eyes make every attempt
To peer beyond the fog in the sky.
About the Creator
Pōlani Monderen
Modern-day nomad attempting to share experiences through writing in a natural, unhindered way; leaving only footprints of ink wherever I wander.
Author and illustrator of "The Elements: A Poetry Journal" by Wick House Publishing.
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Off the Book
It ended like every other stupid idea. Badly, and alone. I’m researching digital confession ethics, he said. A tech ethicist. He gestured at floating data I couldn’t see then pulled out a physical notebook. Actual paper, fountain pen. He held it up like he was showing me scripture.
By Nicky Frankly3 days ago in Fiction
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