In my city the stories keep writing themselves
While my dearest people change like the seasons.
The marigold leaves intrigue my senses,
And the faces I meet accuse me of treason.
The witch trials commence, but I’m a spectator.
I know that they will not relight that flame.
A thousand little fantasies blur my vision,
And I wish I could trap them all in a frame.
No, these streets will not let me capture the magic.
They glare at me as I write down these lines.
My city snaps necks of romantics and poets.
I avert my gaze and wonder why I’m alive.
The sun sets as it lets the moon out of its cage,
And the wooden church sings its ghostly tune.
A thousand little fantasies bleed into tales,
Turning my empty vessels deep maroon.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 