Photo by Hans Isaacson on Unsplash

And now, the dragons come, clouding the sky,
Their leather wings gleam grey as molten lead,
They screech and howl as overhead they fly,
Swoop down, snatch-claw the bodies of the dead,
And in the sea, Leviathan ploughs waves,
Its mighty jaws encompass Spanish galleons,
Yet now they swallow men in briny graves,
Whose bones and flesh are fit only for carrion.
Gigantic wurm-life creeps forth, sniffing blood,
Their ring-toothed mouths in greediness devour
Cold corpses in the sour sanguinous mud,
And surely, this must be our darkest hour,
For naught is left but broken stone and glass.
Our sons and daughters curse us as they pass.

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Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

Darkday afternoon,
when all is sleepiness, lights on
at three, indoor headache. The café

pours out golden light, a waft of rich blend
raises the spirits.
She comes here to meet him — wheat and rye hair
and a scholar’s brain, but his commitment
is not to her sex.

Salt crystals spilled, gritty
to her fingertips.

On the street, umbrellas turn up
like the frill of a ptarmigan’s tail;
coat hems flap, heads bow to the wind, rain
spatters the window.

After this latte,
she will have to leave, but for now -
the fingerscratch of salt, the warmth of the café
and the yearning for a taste
of his sweet coffee lips.

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Laura Sheridan

I write to entertain, explain…and leave a tickle of laughter in your brain.