Hello . . . this is Joe. Welcome to A Daily Drabble. Please add 100 words of prose or poetry as a comment on any date you want and in any order you want. Please reply on the drabbles you like. I'll moderate the comments at night, and they'll appear the next day. This is for everyone!
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ReplyDeleteI assume I am looking at India—that, or some really fancy installation-piece at a museum I haven’t been to nor expect I’ll go. Let me do a redo: the installation could be in India, not either or rather matter of more. At everyway, I hitch myself to flow: I have no heart for song lays low. Kipling: crippling. Ripple, pearl: world-love purl—third for fourth and fourth for wholly whirled if I ace amnesia. Nah, I do my torso’s ghost up in lace: celiac periphrastic for Phoenician, passive at the fast of forward and does ford dick across current.
ReplyDeleteEventually one stem pushed through a crack in the brittle floor, and then another and another. After a few dozen years, a small copse of birch spreads over the rotunda. The dead leaves fell and intermingled with the dead books, dust to dust, stories within stories, and the tallest of trees broke through the ceiling in search of better sunlight. That golden warmth spurred the ivy to creep up the wall and crack the bannisters. The aperture let in drizzle, which caused the chairs and reading tables to soften and fall, and blue-green moss stained the rotted wallpaper in patches.
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