Written by Vincent Zulawski


From one line to the next

I hear crows in a murder outside

Embodying my thoughts as I chase them away

They grow silent.

A mirage is but this life, and perhaps the next…

Must give us pause,

For what to do with the time at hand,

Shall reveal itself as right

Check, check, checking those boxes

Those houses, we inhabit,

And whether a burglar or a bandit

Written in tongues of Latin or Sanskrit

We seek refuge in comfort and in sepulcher.


Without which a void is made

The etchings on our tombs may

Diminish into unimportance, fading like ink

Written on a plastic womb.