Brian Dang

leaking sunlight in curtain slits
leave columns of dim morning
and rising dust colonies
disturbed only by tired eyes.

I breathed in the same house
for all my life but never realized
how warm those morning
rays were,
how much they had within them,
how much they held
even after they left, even in the aftermath of winter.


on the same streets for all my life,
and its trees were trees
until they weren’t,
until their leaves fell
with every motion ebbing and flowing
with the slow pulsing of my chest
and my breaths formed clouds
that beamed in and out of existence,
a fading memory, a place to belong
in this world, only to be left like
hazy mist, snow storm fog.


the last time it fogged, it seemed
as if the world had entered another
and every step opened itself
to find luminescence but it was only
the streets as it always been,
nothing had changed,
yet the world had entered another

and then it was back to standing in my new home
those memories gone,
lost, or unneeded, and I looked to the
leaking sunlight,
another day
was about to come,
and maybe nothing important would happen

About the Writer

Brian is a writer of prose and poetry dealing with all manners of the everyday filtered through words trying to leave the page.

Editor: Sun

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