By D.S. Levy
I must admit, I miss you. Somewhere out there in the black of night, in binary combinations that can’t be fathomed, I stumble the distance, searching. My fingers turn over rocks and words—either will sink, you know. I hold on, floating in brackish waters darker than your eyes. It’s funny that I should seek what I abhor. But isn’t that always the way? Don’t we rush to judgment too soon? Don’t we go looking for hearts darker than our own? And when we find them, aren’t we always just a little bit thrilled until the tide of regret washes in?
Deep surrealism, seems the writer is looking for someone who has passed on.A hopeless task.
I like this a lot. I don’t really hear surrealism, I hear poetry. Keep up the good work, and thanks.