Flames spread
The future heat-shimmers up our view scopes.
Not a number, but a variable.
Nerves excite worn neurons.
Yet not an equation. A forecast.
Headlines boil in our morning soup.
Partly sunny. Chance of thunderstorms.
Reins of power gridlock change.
Eighty percent chance the powerful win.
We melt, chained to their cauldron.
Thirty percent chance of the kindness of strangers.
She loves me.
Flames spread.
She loves me not.
Edited by Venus Davis. Words by Vennie Hunt and Don Reed.
