by Daryl Ross Halencak


The rare downpour would wash the muddy footprints
from his courtyard trail. His playful romp in the soaked and chilly courtyard was one of
few keepsakes that he had left as a reminder of days gone by.
Fondly, he remembered the child’s metered steps when the barefooted boy walked in and
amongst the wet green and gold and azure fields.
When he felt the glum dark hound nipping at his ankles, he would remove his shoes and dig toes
deeply into the cool, damp sod.
The beautiful memories showered back like the flood upon his beloved trail.
He would smile for a season, until the hound clutched his throat and ripped it open.


Memories are like shooting stars: the night sky witnesses a bright point of light,
followed by flickers, then darkness- damned darkness.
His empty souls chased him into the black holes of imploded stars.
The tenderness of the well lived life is swallowed into the hellish abyss and life
is transformed into mere existence. Existence without form or substance:
only dried, cracked mud .

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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