Faded Plot

What haven’t we found
lurking in the bright meadows
because we’re more apt to scour
the long, draining night?

The slums of faded parchments
have less to fear now,
their faces never slated to grow
the lines that would wrinkle their brow
and make them memorable.

When flowers aren’t cared for
they wilt in the pot–
when stories aren’t tended
they fade from the plot.

The majesty, lustre and life
blows out like a light,
until the next orphan idea
gets swept to the page, to be the last
like all siblings before–

in the crevice of inconsistency.

-B.W. Gladney

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