written by: Christian Ward
The streets are wet
like spring lawns,
days opening like picnic
doesn’t care much
for looking ahead
or nostalgia buried
like animal caches.
Cancer stole my resolutions
to firework into nothingness.
My breath reeks of gunpowder.
I hear drumming against my skull
while neon flashes in front of my eyes.
The past dims and dims and dims
while all that glistens is uncertainty.
Christian Ward is a UK based writer who has been extensively published online and in print.
Latest posts by Christian Ward (see all)
- New Year - January 11, 2023
- Spastic - November 2, 2022
- Derelict Land Near North Greenwich, London - July 26, 2022