Silent Nights

He’s a fugitive walking through the neighborhood. Trapped in the town he’s running from. Choruses of frothing loam biting at his ankles.  

On those silent nights clouds pass by mob-like and at sunset they are pitchforks and torches. But at night, under moonlight; a weighted down hatchback packed to the brim.

Anticipating the getaway is all he has left. Every secret scratched and peeled by the wind, like the one that goes; maybe the dogs love is the only love I ever knew. Poof. Through the trees. 

Author: Buddhadoshā

Buddhadoshā loves you.

2 thoughts on “Silent Nights”

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