The Standstill
They sit, unmoved
splayed across an indifferent sky.
Even the light is uninspired, a lazy, sooty white
no vibrance of sherbet pastels nor drama of descended night.
“It’s peculiar,” I think
They sit, unmoved
splayed across an indifferent sky.
Even the light is uninspired, a lazy, sooty white
no vibrance of sherbet pastels nor drama of descended night.
“It’s peculiar,” I think