He hung a teaspoon
on the door instead
of a hat, fed us mud
instead of porridge.
At night we heard him
squirm in the confines
of a bed too small
for his page-like frame.
The dreams produced
were too big for his head
and often dripped through
the ceiling. One morning
I woke with men marching
on my lap. Another,
with giant ants, paprika-red.
The day he left, I found
him by my window, wearing
an Icarus suit, desperate
to fly even though the feathers
had been melted to his skin.














Comments
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one half of ~ZombiesAteUs
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BT.
"The truth knocks on the door and you say, "Go away, I'm looking for the truth," and so it goes away."
Robert M. Pirsig
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle maintanance
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a n d a l l i n t h e c o l d l i g h t o f m o r n i n g
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[link] - Sci-fi flash fiction for tomorrow, every day.
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