The musical rhythm of the rain pattering overhead, flashing of neon lights to brighten the road for the dead. You’d think it was evening, the dark is still here. The morning light still escapes behind the wall of fear. Cold shivers around the corner, hidden in a sea of glass. What is thought to be heat, is only steam rising from the street. A hand of frost stretches from the shadows, as if to touch the fallen. Then someone far down the street bellows. The hand quickly withdrawn. The street suddenly arises, it’s pools of tears ripple in excitement, As the son comes walking by.
Pamela M. Loykowski, January 2011