Fallen – A poem.

He stands alone on the corner.
Shaggy brown hair hangs
and tangles with the tatters of his clothes.
The colors have left him, so he blends
with the fog that has its fingers
wrapped in everything.

I barely see him, a ghost
in front of a window. But our
eyes meet. His eyes pierce the fog
and burrow into mine—
time slows, my speedometer
needle stuck on thirty-seven.
He glows, like St. Elmo’s fire,
I blink and it’s broken.
Those eyes held mine
for a fraction of eternity.

Something unsaid stuck
in my throat. Look back—
lost in the fog and the traffic.

But there, a glimmer.

JKolasch

Dawn – A poem.

Fog cuts the city—
zigzagged lines of unskilled hands
that first picked up a saw.

Like the mirror,
broken above the sink.
But you can see lines that bisect
and twist across your face.

Everything is muffled.
The type of silence you only sing about.

JKolasch