Member-only story
The Watcher’s Game
A free verse poem about possibility.
They are of glass and ice and imperfect orbits. Yet, they carry on without knowing.
Gliding like a phantom wing upon the bow of thought, never so much as to miss a single thread; it is a dance of minimal proportions. Ever to be completed, always circling, it is the scrape of a blade like a sentence halt, sending powder in its wake. One cannot help but wonder where the curiosity is drawn, a hand tipped like a flower before the hummingbird’s touch.
It is infinite. It is alive.
Such intrigue longing to be reckoned, to embrace its own faulted injustice. At the beating pulse of it all is the secret that demands to be brought to completion, only to ebb away into the mercurial tide of all things now commonly profound.
Yet they try. We try, to be the first to that rumour of unattainable honey. Thus, we dance and glide and wait.
