MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Creater Lake by Al Rollins

Poetry


The Scent of Ashes

Robert Spiegel

The footprints of fallen angels
lead to the center square
where children donít play.

The calm houses are blind Ė
no drink left for a toast
or protection, the scent of ashes.

At some point someone will
initiate a meeting. Most will
follow. Some will disappear east.

You can taste the loss, how each dawn
is useless, feathers falling from nowhere,
hours dropping into the day.

She was pretty sexy when she walked in.
Nearly everyone bought her a drink.

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Summer Solstice 2011 Table of Contents