POETRY
WONDERLAND by blue
The night is still young. (He exhales.) The moon illuminates the path ahead of him, adorned with shreds of glass and murky puddles. (He places one foot forward.) The bridge arches in front of him, tall, menacing. (He sees cloaked figures— is it just his imagination?) The ground shines, its glassy surface reflecting his dark figure.
The gleam is blinding against the dim background, a sun bursting, a star falling.
(In his hand, he holds the very piece he needs to set himself free.)
(The warmth pulls at his fingers, tickling his skin with a scorchy touch.)
The pitch black night sky stares back at him with a piercing gaze.
What seems like pained howls echo in the distance.
(His hands warm as he hears the crackle.)
(He winces, but his lips curl upwards until his entire face is enveloped by his smile.)
Light, reintroduced into the dark night, burns, expands, explodes. (He sets the torch down, hand stinging, only for it to meet the ground with an ear-deafening crackle.)
The blaze skips, spinning, twirling, a whirlwind of pantone. (He skips, spinning, twirling, gleeful at how free he feels, with destruction behind him.) The sizzling sound grows, until the entire bridge is swallowed in fire.
The night is young. (The night is young, and so is his desire to be free.)
(He hears the sizzling sound grow, until the entire bridge is swallowed in fire.) The night is young. (The night is young, and so is his desire to be free.)
Dec 2020||The penchant|26
