The bends of life are questions we answer–at risk.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
I hold the reins
Dark horses that neigh
A kept tale
The only
Company.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
The carriage
Used to
hold–
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
Her.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
We traversed this road.
Under clouds
White.
Soft.
Cradling with their mist.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
Her hand
Soft
Yet firm.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
At dusk
My vision
Blurs.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
The bend curves
In a question mark
I’ve tried not
to answer.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
The reins sweat in my palm.
They wait.
Not knowing.
For me
To let go.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
Sadness
An unwelcome passenger
He jerks our seats
And minds.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
Hard.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
Rocky.
Bumpy.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
The carriage
Stops.
Leans forth.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
Where?
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
The horse neighs.
Waits.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
For me.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
For her.
🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞 🛞🐎🛞
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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
