Summer, and the air is sweet and laced with threats of thunder
All was good until the flight of fancy that is only falling forever.
Pitched forward in the electric air
We turn in wild, unruly, rolling motion,
Caught in the updraft to the anvil cloud.
Flailing with failing words, their stings like whip cracks on skin.
Through the hail and ice, we tumble and topple,
We drop and diminish
Into the welcoming arms of nothing but the fall
We are suspended, waiting to see if we ever land again.
About the Creator
Ian Vince
Erstwhile non-fiction author, ghost & freelance writer for others, finally submitting work that floats my own boat, does my own thing. I'll deal with it if you can.
Top Writer in Humo(u)r.
Comments (2)
My vocal. madia account is broken, can you help me, sir? 🙏
Welcome back! Your imagery is amazing as always 😀