Thursday, November 19, 2015

Anomaly

Moving.
Going through the motions; collecting.
Memories.
One by one.
Mechanical.
Emotionless.
Just, collecting.
Putting them in bags, in boxes, steel vaults.
Sealing them up with ties, with tape, with locks.
Shipwrecked debris, barely surviving; drifting along.
Staring up into nothing.
Thinking nothing.
Feeling. . .
   nothing.

Until, a strange sight came into view.

There, in the corner, above the window frame,
   where the wall meets the ceiling, sat . . .  a frog.  












  

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