Best Before – by LISE COLAS

 Best Before

 

Gary yawned and blinked, he would have liked a bit of a stretch too, but then he remembered he was a cake in a box, so that would not be possible.  At least he could see through his cellophane, which was some relief. A swoop had taken place while he was asleep and a shelf raider had finally cleared away Victoria Sponge. Not before time too, judging by that date of hers. Why she’d been plonked on top of him in the first place, he couldn’t fathom. Not even the same brand and she had weighed a ton, threatening to permanently warp his front top.

Halloo Carrot Boy!’ Uh, it was his fellow shelfie, the annoying pink Battenberg.

‘Hi  Pinkie. How’s things?’

‘Ooh, you are such a tease, calling me Pinkie, you make me blush even more pink–’

‘Uh–well, I don’t want to unsettle your crumbs, mate–I know it’s a tough life being the only one–’

‘Don’t worry, Carrot Boy–I like being the one, makes me feel special. We own brands must stick together, eh? We do our best to look good no matter what. We’re not deluded into thinking we have better chance at shelf life because we are a McVitie or a Mister Kipling–’

Uh, he was off again. The carrot cake didn’t need to be told that the big name brands on the shelf above were a snooty bunch. Special? Hmm. Yes, he knew he was special in a weird way.

Own brand, premium range, hand-baked somewhere in the West Midlands and his name was actually Gary, not Carrot-Boy or Cakey, whatever. He didn’t really know why he knew all this, either. Made his cream cheese almost curdle just thinking about it.

Gary knew he’d have to be consumed one day, that was the whole point, it was called Apotheosis. Ah, the day of selection, when a customer would pick you up and put you inside their wire crate, swinging from side to side, making you queasy and your corners a bit dented if you didn’t watch out. He’d learnt as far back as cake factory, that way beyond this land of shelf life and blessed aisles, there was a weirdly different world, where the customer is a person, but he didn’t like to ponder too deeply about it. The all important thing was achieving lift off,  via the altar of confirmation and passing through the red eye, to be bagged up with others and hauled away somewhere–hopefully not in the same bag as the frozen peas or it would make your cardboard all soggy. Out into that mysterious world, destined to be masticated inside some lucky person’s cake-hole.

The best Apotheosis you could hope for was to be consumed by a family of four, at least it was quick. That’s what poor old Ginger Loaf had told Gary on the day he arrived. Poor Ginger, he’d remained on the lower shelf perilously near his deadline and eventually the raiders had come for him and he’d ended up in the bins round the back, being pecked at by seagulls. That was the trouble with being a Value plastic-wrap. At least Gary had his box and his trusty shield of cellophane and the added consolation he’d be reduced for quick sale.

‘Ach, Carrot Boy–you and me are one of a kind–not like the others. That stupid bunch of primrose yellow idiots, look at them! They are my tribe but they won’t speak to me. Just because I’m pink! But I don’t care, they are just a dumb bunch of squares!’ Here the Battenberg tipped his corners towards his alternatively coloured brethren, stacked eight-deep.

Hmm, being the only pink one left had gone to his head, mused Gary. Must be down to all those emulsifiers and the high sugar content. Could be dangerous being the only shelfie of your kind–made you a target for the raiders. There were four other premium own brand carrot cakes besides himself, with exactly the same best before, but none of them had said a word since delivery day. Perhaps the Battenberg was right after all. Not all cakes were made the same. After all, he was ‘hand-finished’ and that must make a difference–something must have happened on the production line. Something a bit odd, it couldn’t just be down to the pasteurised free range whole egg, surely.

‘Yeah, Pinkie it’s you and me against the world,’ said Gary, at the same time wondering why in crumb-nation he’d said this.

It had been a day of low activity. The damn custs rolling or swinging their wire crates didn’t seem to be in a cake mood and the aisle was practically deserted. At times like this Gary wished that the pink Battenberg would be less of a drama queen and just shut up so he could doze for a while.

He was fond of a nap, gave him time to settle his crumbs and ponder for a bit. She’d arrived on the third day of his shelf life. Placed next to him, shortly after poor Ginger’s departure. Red Velvet, she was called. A new range in the same premium brand, with cream cheese frosting, but kind of all over. She was like him in other ways too, she could talk and no doubt feel stuff. After lights out at ten thirty and the last of the shelf raiders had departed, they had the place to themselves.

Shelfies always made the most of those precious hours. He didn’t really know what went on elsewhere, but the cake aisle that ran all the way to biscuits could be relied on to be entertaining. The Eccles cakes told funny stories while the water biscuits cracked jokes and the Swiss rolls held a competition between them to find the one who could jump off the shelf and roll the furthest. The butterfly cupcakes played charades with the shortbread, while the blueberry muffins just goofed around.

‘Hi I’m Gary,’ he whispered. He was confident her real name would be Rachel or Valerie or similar, but she just whispered back, ‘Call me Red.’ Then she commenced to fill him in on her unique ingredients in a husky voice and he listened, enchanted. Her cocoa mass, her colouring (cochineal) the fat content of her frosting. Oh, how he wanted to press his rich nubbly crumbs up against her luscious sponge. He almost wished there was no cardboard separating them, just the skimpy plastic wrap of the Value range.

‘And when I’m selected. I want it to be a couple–lovers. Sharing me. Relishing every morsel, licking every last blob of frosting from each other’s lips. You know what I mean Gary?’ she murmured.

‘Um, yeah, I know what you mean,’ he replied. For a second his cellophane misted over, but it soon cleared again.

The following day, she was gone. Taken away mid-afternoon. A pair of customers came and snatched her up, yes two of them together. At least it looked as if she’d been granted her wish.

‘Ooh, Red Velvet, sounds lovely,’ said the female.

‘Uh, weird name for a cake,’ said the male, peering at the label.

‘It’s soooo romantic and also kind of hot, she replied, ‘I adore those red sprinkles.’

‘Uh, is it chocolate under all that um–cheesy stuff?’

‘I’m not sure–shall we find out?’

‘Oh, ok.’ Red was placed in the crate.

‘Hey, what’s the heavy sigh for?’

‘Sigh? I didn’t sigh–’

‘Funny, I just thought–oh, forget it–’

That was tough, Red saying goodbye to him. Gary retreated inside himself after that, almost willing himself to be part of the same dumb batch as the other carrot cakes.

‘Ha! This is it, Carrot Boy, it’s bye-bye time. Toodle-loo!’ Gary blinked through his cellophane. The pink Battenberg had been pounced on by some old cust wearing a matching pink plastic rain hat. Well, at least he seemed happy about it.

‘Bye Louis, all the best,’ he shouted out. Yeah, Louis that was his name.

The Battenburg hovered high above him, held in the huge claw and it seemed he couldn’t contain himself. ‘Oooh mother–please put me down before I get vertigoooo!’ he shrieked.

Gary girded his inner crumbs, willing them not to sink.  According to Ginger, the older female customers had a habit of keeping your remains in a nasty dark tin until all your bits went hard.

He was still holding out for the family of four. Not long now, hopefully. His ‘Best Before’ threshold was approaching fast. Damn–and his cellophane needed a wipe. When Red Velvet left, he’d got a bit overwrought and he’d smeared some of his frosting across it, mixed with cinnamon dust and it had spoiled his look big time. Looks were everything when you were left behind on the shelf.

Most of the others were gone now. Just two carrot cakes left. It was between him and the last of the carrot shelfies in a pristine box, the smug bastard.

Oh no. Another old female swooping down–was it pension day or something? ‘Sufferin’ iced buns, I can’t look,’ he groaned. From inside his box, Gary felt that seismic shift. Oh no, he’d been picked and he was the one with the topping smear. Why didn’t she choose the cleaner box? Dammit! Stupid old bat must be half-blind. He was being lifted into a crate, luckily a rolling one which guaranteed a smooth ride. Soon he’d be passed through the red eye. Oh well, at least he’d been selected.

Hang on. The old ‘un had stopped making steps for some reason. Something was up. Gary found himself in mid air again and set down somewhere else. Placed next to something that was not compact and had no wrapping to speak of, covered in a very dense layer of soft icing that seemed to move. Very different from anything he’d seen before and it was staring back at him with malevolence. Oh, this was the pits.

‘Hey!’ He felt like shouting after the old bat. He’d been abandoned, the worst possible outcome. Oh the humiliation–not even in a confectionery or home baking aisle, the cosy aroma of almond paste was distinctly absent. It then dawned on him where he was–the toy domain, aisle number nine, the back of beyond. He’d been dumped. No apotheosis for him, he’d just sit here and go stale alongside the inedibles. Then the raiders would come and dump him in the bins at the back. What a bloody waste.

‘What’s this next to the teddies, Mummy?–’ It was one of those small customers, her arms reaching out to pick him up. He slid as if drunk, to one side of his box, as she held him at an awkward angle.

‘I’m not buying you any toys, poppet,’ said the mummy.

‘No, look it’s a cake, Mummy and it’s got a smile on its face!’ The poppet held him up so the mummy could see.

‘That’s not a smile, that’s just a messy mark on the packaging, put it back. Let those teddies have it–’

‘Aww, but I like it–it’s a happy cake. It’ll be sad if I put it back–it’s all on its own.’

‘Let me see,’ the mummy took hold of him, checking the date and the seal on the side flap. ‘Uh, I guess it’s ok, as no-one’s opened it–’ The mummy appeared to be talking to herself, ‘–and carrot cake is nutritious, I suppose.’

He was on the descent again, which was a good sign. Uh, he hated being passed around like this, it made him queasy. He felt his under-cardboard touch wire. The mummy had placed him in the rolling crate. ‘Yesss!’ He felt like punching the air, at the same time wondering why in crumb-nation he would want to do this.

The poppet clapped her hands in delight. ‘The cake’s so happy now it’s coming home with us!’

‘Yes, how nice of Mummy to invite it. Now, let’s take a look at the white socks for school.’

Phew! He’d been processed at last and was finally on course. He’d heard of cakes being abandoned at the altar, but he’d been  beeped through the red eye without a hitch and he was now ensconced in a bold print linen shopper, cheek by jowl with several ready meals and a bunch of broccoli. Not quite a family of four, by the looks of it, but he was pleased all the same. He’d finally arrived, so to speak. Things like wondering why his name was Gary no longer mattered somehow, it would be all smoothed out once his Apotheosis got under way.

Shortly before the raiders came to get Ginger, the little loaf had told him not to believe the new heresy about Apotheosis being a euphemism for a non-metaphysical process called peristalsis–it was all lies. Apotheosis was real and glorious. Anyway, Gary now had his trip through the cake-hole to look forward to. He was sure it would be an adventure and he had everything to be proud of. After all, he’d made it ‘Best Before’.

-End-

***

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Lise Colas lives on the south coast of England and writes poetry and short fiction. She has a BA (Hons) in Fine Art and used to work in the archive of Punch magazine. She generally prefers lemon drizzle cake and feels a bit guilty about that. Check out her poetry blog at:lisecolas.wordpress.com

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Waiting for the Train to Stop – by JULIE PETERSEN

Waiting for The Train to Stop

 

Numb is the best description I can muster

I can’t go on feeling this way

It’s been far too long since I felt anything

So long since my senses were overloaded

Forever since I felt your touch

 

I’m empty like a shell with wind whistling through

Waiting for your rescue – to be listened to

But I know you hear me when you’re gone

All I need to do is think and you just know

We never needed any phones

 

I know one day I’ll see you

Until then, I’ll wait for you in my dreams

Where I see you daily

There you live and visit before I’m gone

Waiting for the train to stop

***

juliepetersen

Julie Petersen lives in Colorado with her two daughters and has written poetry since she was a young adult. She is inspired by emotions, philosophical thoughts, nature, dance, music, art, and photography. Her poetry is often accompanied by photographs she has taken herself. Julie is published in several anthologies including Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze and in Tuck Magazine online. Other pieces of her poetry are currently pending publication in the Dandelion in a Vase of Roses anthology and the December 2016 issue of the Indiana Voice Journal.

Apparition of Memory – by YVETTE KIM

The glistening reflection of the canals glazed the surface and the landscape, complementing the

surrounding water, flowing like blood as it drifts through the veins of the city, flushing the griefs

of yesterday, and bringing life to the creature that is Venice. Keahi’s legs hung on the sidewalk,

skimming the lightly tinted water, sitting on the tiles chipped with history and culture and behind

him were houses that reflected the flamboyance of the city. He squinted at the light gleaming off

the people who were seated at the outdoor cafes on the far end of where he was sitting. Like

them, Keahi allowed the piquant Venetian Lagoon to consume him. But while the others enjoyed

the passing time like children picking at violet petals hidden behind their heart shaped leaves,

Keahi lived in a moment he hoped to forever call his present.

The city captured his luminous, innocent beauty and besmeared it onto its potpourri like canvas

but with the inhibitive and infinite nature of a Borgesian labyrinth as a remembrance of Keahi for

it knew well that time goes on like the rhythm of water.

Countless times he watched people with dreams and aspirations come and go, creating Venice on

their canvases and capturing the essence, the pure and sincere impression and vitality of the

thriving city in their ways. And Keahi, urged by the undulated movement of colors he saw

around him, hummed a sweet, unfamiliar tune.

 

Across the water from him was a nostalgia shop that sold old toys and goods like a museum of a

manifested past. Keahi looked to find a moving silhouette of a boxy figure and saw a dash of

grey revealing the silhouette’s soft expression.

He felt a cry, an overtightening of a screw and his eyes swum around the image, the image of the

silhouette’s oblong face, a face one would think only a mother could love, the silhouette’s face

that framed a set of round eyes which caught the light of the sun in the daytime and of the moon

in the night, a stubbly protruding chin, a roman nose, and perpetually rosy cheeks. Keahi knew

that silhouette and he knew well, the silhouette’s unwrinkled fingertips rubbed smooth from

smudging shadows, the soft muscular lining leading to the small of his back, the grasp and

fulfillment of his embrace: Giotto’s testing, shy eyes that hides behind his thick dark eyebrows,

and wispy eyelashes that withdrawed out and swept him in.

Keahi’s body reacted to the sight of Giotto, the one person who continued to appear in Keahi’s

riddle of confusion, the one person who he refused to be able to let go of. Who is this man but an

ache in a subsisting void of lost and found places and people. A world beyond seeing then

knowing, beyond shape or form, an unimagined imagination. His tears tickled, trickling and

crawling across his face like an infant, watching the water chuckle as the gondoliers lulled the

sea with their songs, rowing away towards a bound of light. He watched the movement of the

city as its skin glowed with a fuse of warm and cool hues of bright red, tuscan blue, and swirls of

light and dark, the people and the birds like light fan brush strokes, just a breeze with the sunset

adding to the life of the city, its light soon to be borrowed by the Venetians who later lit their

home with its warmth.

 

 

He rose from the sidewalk and let out a moan. His eyes darted from the sky to a pole to an ant.

His vision white, he rubbed his face vigorously as if to spark fire. He shook violently and

 

was harsh and comforting at

 

groaned as colorless liquid trickled down his legs. No longer did he see the the city— only its

mark, its static yet palpitating nature, stirring his self’s running definition. The city, just a

throbbing monster of delirium, expelled from his recognition. Still trembling, he plopped onto

the puddle he had made and moaned with his mouth ajar. No different from the ants that crawled

through the walls, he sat just as absent in mind. The exotic mix of dark and light skinned

strangers spilling through and around him as if the Chamber of Guf had overflown. Nothing was

further than what it seemed, cornering, pushing, and pulling him. He sat up as he crouched into a

squat like a frightened roly poly doing only what it knows to do in knowing only to protect itself.

His eyes and the corners of his lips stretched down. His face contorted and strained like the

tragedy of mud pies. He held his legs and squeezed himself breathing bullets of air with cold

sweat dripping, dripping, dripping from every surface of his body.

 

—————————

 

Keahi found himself coiled in his slimy blanket drenched in anxiety, when he woke up to a

pleasant, deep voice calling out a familiar name, yet he wondered what about it was familiar. He

found nothing not strange, everything being so strange. The room he woke up in was white—

white walls, white sheets, white bedframe, white desk, white ceiling— almost drained of

pigment with just a single violet soaking in a pellucid, tall vase of frail water, barely showing

any signs of life aside from that of its host. The feeling of ​strange

once.

Afraid of the sunlight blasting past the window as if to touch him, Keahi kept his eyelids closed

gently over his eyes as he drifted away for a second trying to remember his forgotten dream

before he heard the same pleasant voice calling out the yet again familiar and unfamiliar name.

As the voice and the name approached him closer and closer, he recognized a melody in the

voice. The door creaked open exposing just a head. Keahi, weary of everything around him, saw

a face of a stranger with bright eyes, a stubbly protruding chin, a roman nose, rosy cheeks, and a

warm smile.

Embers – by K.B. CARLE

Embers

 

I watch the embers, sore after being thrown to the ground. Watch the crimson sparks skip off the ashen wood as your heavy body presses against mine. Watch as your hand slips under my dress, claws at my legs, rips away my underwear. Hot tears blur my vision as you grunt, enter me, choke me. Your big hand strikes my face as I watch the embers dim. You pull my hair, forcing me to watch you, thick vein pulsing in your forehead, sweat dripping onto my dry lips, black hair on your chest, creeping under your arms.

Every time it hurts but every time I find something new to watch; cobwebs on the ceiling, a mouse hiding under the couch, your friend with the lazy eye looking back at me.

I want to watch as my fingers wrap around your neck, slap you when you cry, slam your head against the floor when you scream. I just want to watch your eye swell, hear your shoulder crack, the arm dangling at your side. Taste the blood on your lips as I wish you goodnight.

I watch your chest rise, your mouth hang open, drool streaming down your cheek as I gather the clothes you purchased me. I watch as the flame creeps up the match. I watch as it devours my wedding dress. From outside I watch the smoke fly, choking you, blurring your vision, making your eyes water.

And I watch the embers soar.

***

image1

K.B. Carle currently lives outside the greater Philadelphia area where she sits in a poorly insulated office, contemplating the struggles all writers face on a daily basis. She earned her BA from Old Dominion University in Virginia, MA from West Chester University in Pennsylvania and is currently working towards her MFA in Creative Writing-Fiction at Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky. She is a lover of literary, historical and speculative fiction, journeying to conferences in hopes of finding adventure and forming connections with fellow writers that share a passion for their craft. Her short story entitled, “Gone Fishing” is currently available on Pennyshorts’ website.

 

What if Dreams Come True? – by C R SMITH

What if Dreams Come True?

 

When dusk falls the daytime city fades away. Workplaces, once hives of activity, are swallowed up by shadows as arcs of light sweep across the ancient monuments; their reflections captured by glass monoliths of modernity. From here, on my corner, I watch the nightlife awaken. Coloured neon signs flicker to life; hidden doors are thrown open, shining light across narrow streets as establishments entice their clientele inside. Bursts of laughter break free from a myriad of conversations, merging with the distant hum of traffic rumbling beneath my feet.

From here, I see and hear it all.

As I play my saxophone, the construction site’s red dots blink along the skyline, highlighting the towering cranes and building tops that push forever upwards. They seem to flash along with my music. It’s so cold I can almost see the notes floating upwards towards the ether. Plenty of people rush past me, all hurrying to find some place warm. Nobody notices me. Glancing down at my open music case, all I see is a screwed up train ticket and a sprinkling of change. The only thing I’ll be buying tonight will be served in a polystyrene cup!

I’ve almost played my entire repertoire; there’s only one tune left. My fingers are so cold now I can hardly feel them, let alone move them. My feet are numb and I think they may have frozen to the ground. I bring the saxophone to my lips. My eyes flicker. It’s fitting my final breath should play out as a note; music has been my life. Sound amplifies, swirling around me, until I’m lost in a dizzy haze. When I open my eyes I’m lying on the ground with a man standing over me. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him.

  “Fancy going somewhere warmer? My sax player’s moved on. I need one for tonight’s gig,” he says.

I can’t believe it! What are the chances? It’s my dream come true. I follow the man to his nightclub. He leads me to a staircase.

The further down we go the hotter it gets. My body tingles as I slowly thaw. I loosen my clothes. I’m starting to sweat under all my layers. We keep going, descending further and further into a cloud of smoke. I smell burning. It worries me, but then I hear the familiar chink of glasses; the murmur of conversation.

The smell of alcohol makes my mouth water, I could do with a drink. The smoke clears, revealing a crammed room. Silence falls, both mine and theirs; the audience is not what I expected. I’m taken aback by the grotesque assortment of creatures staring at me.

“What sort of club is this?” I can barely get the words out.

“Some people call it a Soul club,” he says, with a demonic laugh. “I like to collect them.”

***

N9-EI_8t

CR Smith is currently working towards a Fine Art degree. CR Smith is passionate about literature, slightly more passionate about art.  She can be read on Paragraph Planet, VERStype, Visual Verse,  Zero Fiction, The Angry Hour Glass, Microcosms Fic and Ink in Thirds. She has also written a horror story for an anthology called The Infernal Clock, due out in October. You can find her on Twitter:@carolrosalind and Instagram: @smith.cr

 

An Oresteia In Nashville – by APRIL BRADLEY

An Oresteia In Nashville

Athena decides to wear her aegis with her cassock but vanishes her helmet along with her spear and shield. A sphinx stands at attention at the apex of her headdress with two griffins on either side. It’s her favorite piece, really—indestructible and unarguably badass. It matches her Cloth of Gold tunic, but a goddess formerly manifested as the largest piece of indoor sculpture on Earth cannot walk around Nashville looking as if she’s on her way to a festival. The aegis, however, looks eccentric enough to pass as a tony accessory. Athena’s left hand twitches for her spear, but she holds her instincts in check and strides out of The Parthenon, following the sun, heading towards the Cumberland River.

Athena’s hiding out as a priest, and this works out because she’s still in the family business. She and her brother Apollo screwed things up a few thousand years ago with the House of Atreus and like all grief-devoured, cursed families their pain has played out over and over in an almost literary way throughout time. She can’t stop patriarchy, but she can change a few things: Orestes is not a son. This time, Iphigenia and Elektra instead have another sister.

Athena looks up at the Ryman Auditorium, strategizing about how to deal differently with Clytemnestra, when a man calls out.

“Hey sweet lady, were your parents Greek deities? ’Cause it takes two to make a goddess!”

Athena inhales the air around him; her helmet, spear, and shield shimmer. She cocks her head and assesses his myriad weaknesses. “That is not entirely accurate.”

When she turns to strut away, her robes snap and billow around her jeans; her spurs scrape and spark on Music City’s sidewalk. The Gorgon on her chest purses its lips with sympathetic irritation.

“Come on, try some of my ambrosia and bless it. I got the best food-truck in town.”

He’s an untried, whimsical mortal and wears offensively bright-colored clothing. He offers her food “on the house,” but Athena sees a metal cart on wheels, excellent for defensive use. The so-called ambrosia looks like the seared rib meat of a stout animal.

She sucks on a finger after nibbling on a bone. “This isn’t ambrosia.”

“What else you call BBQ?”

Athena knows a feast approaches. From across the river she sees Clytemnestra unfurl the cloth and then stand on the threshold to welcome vengeance. The Fates sing; Apollo is silenced. This time, the women will sort this out.

“I’ll take some with me.”

The man brightens and smiles. “How much you want?”

The Goddess of Wisdom sighs and dwells on the ravening appetites of the Furies. “Enough for a Chorus.”

***

AprilBradley

April Bradley is from Goodlettsville, Tennessee and lives with her family on the Connecticut shoreline near New Haven. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Smokelong Quarterly’s “Why Flash Fiction” Series, Boston Literary MagazineFlash Frontier, Hermeneutic Chaos Literary MagazineThe Journal of Compressed Creative ArtsNarratively, and Thrice Fiction, among others. She is the Associate Editor for Bartleby Snopes Literary Magazine and Press where she established the Women Who Flash Their Lit Series & Forum. Find her at aprilbradley.net

Coming of Age / Now – Poetry from SCOTT THOMAS OUTLAR

Coming of Age

The poet speaks of love

as an abstract emotion,

as a pure essence,

as a longing of the heart,

as a grasp toward the ineffable,

as a projection of mystery,

as a hope for better days,

as a journey through life’s labyrinthine maze,

as a path through the murky haze,

as a whisper of something whimsical,

as a passion without boundaries,

as an effort to reach a state of perfect peace.

 

Yes, a poet speaks of love

in this way

until love is finally found,

and then a poet learns

to speak of love

as fact,

as certainty,

as purpose,

as principle,

as absolute truth

born from eternal salvation.


Now

I was not in love

and so I had

no one

to whom

I could write a love song

 

Now every word that she whispers

sends my heart into a frenzied flutter

 

Now when I lay my head down to sleep

she is the only angel welcome in my dreams

 

I can vividly imagine

from thousands of miles

across the sea

the electricity sparked

when her hands

are held in mine

 

Now when the sun rises in the morning

I know that it is she who creates the shine

 

Now every star that casts light from the sky

is a divine reflection of her perfect feminine nature

 

Now I am in love

and so there is

only one woman

to whom

I will ever sing a love song

***

Reading - Visions of Verse

Scott Thomas Outlar hosts the site 17Numa.wordpress.com where links to his published poetry, fiction, essays, and interviews can be found. He has three poetry collections currently available: Songs of a Dissident (Transcendent Zero Press, 2015), Happy Hour Hallelujah (CTU Publishing, 2016), and Chaos Songs (Weasel Press, 2016).