Strange days indeed
this morning,
someone asked me if i had food.
i was driving,
and no one was with me.
this question,
spoken through ether,
was an answer to a tardy dream
i had
of one in rags
who wanted to speak but couldn’t.
black, as a colour (or the absence thereof),
can express thought or intent surprisingly well.
for such were his eyes,
and they saw me well.
i stopped for relief on a gravelly shoulder,
pushing aside fronds and common bush
to tend to business.
being done, i shoved my way out,
and found that burdocks and sundry
had stuck to my clothing.
a tiny twig had gotten between my neck and collar,
and as i pulled it out i saw it held a pale cocoon.
one in want of a metamorphosis,
but stilled somehow.
its furled denizen mummified.
a life never lived.
a waste.
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Lee Dunn View All
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.
