Paul, you bag of boast
You spewed lies across the Earth
You didn't see Jesus!
About the Creator
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More stories from George Zelinski and writers in Poets and other communities.
3:40am
There is a mourning in living, In waking every day, And remaining, Where the slings of fate can reach you, And conjure to your mind, Such futures immaterially real and forboding, That you pray for mercy, Pray for lacklustre and dry numb deadness, That you'd worry people if they chose to hear, If you chose to talk, If you made any choice at all, For once.
By Conor Matthews2 days ago in Poets
A Love Forboding
The chipped stone slope caused unbearable footing. I slid, skirting on my heels. I cast my shield, relinquishing my guard to stay upright. Left with my double-edge and a prayer to the maker, I skated toward my objective. The earthly stubble gave way to solid ground. I found myself restored, a trail of dust in my wake.
By James U. Rizzi6 days ago in Fiction
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