The dead whisper to each other tied together by unseen strands of timeless wandering through the wilderness of pain, smeared like paint across the canvas of time, paint like blood, coagulated colors of frost and sweat in children’s screams over centuries of monsters squashing flesh into roads. Light breaks each morning revealing facades of long lost temples and mosques, of skyscrapers and houses, of bones piled high and peeling flesh. Sounds of mourning pierce like spears as corpses carried high make the journey down the river of insignificance. The wheel just turns and turns over days and months and years and decades and the grieving remains the same wherever its loudspeakers blare the voices of the weeping. The strand will break and we will all soon be scattered into dark black holes and spit out into the hinterlands of infinity.
BIO: Jay S Zimmerman is an artist, photographer, psychologist and social justice advocate. He has recently been published in Matryoshka Poetry, Three Line Poetry, I am not a silent poet, Curly Mind, and Flying Island, New Verse News, Quatrain.Fish and Rats Ass Review.