when I was sixteen
my father gave me two stones
that clicked, created sparks
brushes of light in a
darkened bathroom,
flutters of lightning
striking through the ooze
of darkness
the monotony caught fire –
with clouded eyes, I
watched the horizon burn
and the seams beckoned with
trembling fingers
we used to go searching for
the end of the world, now we
leave it lonely
memorize the face – puffing
red nostrils and drooping lips
telling saccharine lies that
drip like honey but burn all
the way down
in the sparks was a group of
things whistling to me, sighing that
they don’t belong – it’s a shame
that they’re just a memory
About the Poet
Annalie Sandor is an avid theatrical performer, writer, and bookworm who is currently attending Yale University. She is always searching for the perfect cup of tea (let her know if you’ve found a contender), and is often inspired by the unexpected adventures that are a happy by-product of said search.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.
Vita Brevis Press. 