One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The steady march of boots on ground,
like countless drumming, thumping sounds,
in time with one the other too
left and right and right on through.
Three of four and keys not meant
for doors. Signings writ for loans not spent
bars where drinking can’t be done
and staffs you can’t quite lean on.
Ballrooms filled with twirling forms
arms around the other clasped
rhythm here is present too
to dance is what they came to do.
Around a stone all crowded close,
rain and shadows in repose,
here as well together lies
the wand’ring strands of family ties.
About the Creator
alan pierce
Recently I published my first novel, The Burning Ones, a sword-and-sorcery-and-cyborg adventure balancing the youthful angst of a coming-of-age story with the realities of a world plagued by war.
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