Fatalist                                                    

                                                     

I am the hand cleaving                              

to the daggerÕs shaft,                                

riding the bloodred line

to the last stop.

 

I am the feet flying

from the granite shelf,

bound for destiny

in cement stasis.

 

I am the tongue savoring

rollicking pills

that rocket through the gullet

to pillage.

 

I am the fingers winding

knotted twine,

riding it

into eternity.

 

 

 

Pageant

 

Frost flanks the pane,

stays the sunÕs attack.

Snowflakes slap the walk and drag on.

Morning bells wail windward.

 

Charcoal crows etch lines in clouds,

perch in tattered trees.

Houses caged in crystal bars

Lodged, silent as stones.

 

A blizzard beats the road below

White fog veils the path,

shrouding all the miles weÕve come

and the black car far ahead.

 

© Dorene O'Brien

 

Bio:  She has published a third fiction collection, What It Might Feel Like to Hope, which just won a gold medal in the Independent Publishers Book Awards for Short Fiction. Her website is http://www.doreneobrien.com