We’re fading mirages spent
by father times lease.
As we wait to balloon
to the neon sky,
In a haze,
day after day,
from twilights
dawning depths;
the sunrise bakes.
The slumbering horizon
awaits remnants
of earths scattered
souls to reunite with us.
When antiquity phones,
this world will yawn,
and it’s inhabitants
will slip into
their dormancy;
You slip into your
time capsule ruin
underneath the soil.
No matter what,
you’re a limited
release casted
by the tar cloaked angel.
You order your silhouette
to waltz back into
the atmosphere;
but in the end,
we’ll still be
drinking our dust.
by Chris Ozog
Christopher Ozog is a 23 year old writer who resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His work has previously appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, The Commonline, and Crack the Spine with work upcoming in Hello Horror.
