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Noah Johnson


The embers danced–
You’ve heard that before–I know,
It’s hard to think straight,
Whipping a sooty smudge,
Where tears lay.
The Moon’s crest is swollen,
Where the sun will cry,
and give You to the night.

That Lamp.
How embers will dance,
They’ve heard that before–I know,
It’s hard to think straight,
Being whipped into a Frenzy.
In the tears, begotten manners, in Night
to sacrifice for power, to beg.
Giveth into me the Night…

This is not a story of revenge.
A man has lost something,
To him
his Sun,
his Moon, his Stars. The Past remained.
As did parts of him.

A time ago,
A fleeting memory,
Enigma bleeding away,

Let us follow,
At our own pace,

The picture recedes
Resuscitates, and the memory fogged
In a mind’s void becomes a story.
There lived a lonely man, at
the corner of two streets,
barker ave and parker st.
in a small house, near too cramped,
even for him, though if
You got a good look at him, the tops
of everyone’s head
would only ever meet his brow
But he was considered short for his time.

A same time ago,
In an image
as clear as the crystal ocean,
A refraction of the Sun’s wray,
through glistening teeth. A picture
Refracts and reflects,
creating a tale Of
A Dream, whom grew flowers,
produce, and poison.
And sat happily in the rain.
A Dream with rosed cheeks,
And a strong jaw. Who
lived in a home big enough
For Two.

A caught wray of sun pushed their eyes to meet.
Both became a fluttering glimmer in the gleaning.
And soon one became two. The house
that was too small sold.
It was quiet.

And so was the night.
In my arms, I had slept through it,
In my arms, They had slept through it,
In my arms, only one of us had the chance gifted.

To open our eyes once more.

Bio: I grew up in small-town, Midwest, and have been writing unprofessionally all my life, until I graduated Graceland Un with a bachelors in English and Hispanic studies. Now I am writing until I drop dead, continuing my desire to explore poetry and story-telling.

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