1 poem

by Rivkah Chaouat

Nova Classical Academy

second hand ink

I fall into those second hand sentiments, the
pre-slumberous haze and the reaching palm of it.

The gazing upon each muted light, the
remembering of each dimming wick, the

fear of the lifeless smoke losing itself into the quick rush of the ruthless wind.
I scream at a thousand unfamiliars,

pouring into the life of a thousand flames.
I commit the bottomless crime of

forgetfulness in the eyes of six million candles.
I watch the paint fade and the credits play.

I walk away from 11 blows in a blazing city.
I fall into those second hand memories, the

false equivalencies of truths easily brushed by.
I wait and I watch and I run away.