The past sets have rotated to remind me of my freshly printed script, that the stage is set, that blindness is gone, that my once soaring heart has been laden with heavy reproach and approaching, overbearing fear and joy as the curtain swings open and the lights beam down-
it’s blinding on such a frail sighting.
It's coming. It's going. It's rotating and racing, one after the other after the other after the other- there is no such thing as time.
YOU ARE READING
Last Year's Flowers
PoetryIn the third installment, Last Year's Flowers, MissReads19's poetry takes on a new shape through storytelling. Crafted from fragments of poems written through time, Last Year's Flowers takes the reader on a fictionalized journey of love from beginni...
