“For my days are consumed like smoke.”
A word collector. Every Sunday at dawn. He carries them away in a battered blue van. Just the man who collects them, not those who dispose. However they do. A furnace. A landfill. Each one a snowflake in a winter’s tale. The mystery of rhyme. Hymns like hoar-frost hanging on the trees. The breath of spirits dreams are made on. Puffs of smoke that rise like wisps of larks, whispering to the clouds, twisting to the stars. Blank verse.
abandoned school
chalk dust
the teacher’s words
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