Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,

and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.

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Wednesday, June 1, 2011


the footsteps of the wind
approach at altitude
signal their arrival
these plastic bags in trees
announcing their intent

the needles in the breeze
poke holes in the gaps in the silence
which melts into
the grey white noise
of tarseal pressing tired flesh

and then it stops
and starts again
and leaves me thinking
of whether this is good and great
or can never be that way
this weary sense of now and forever.