On a Sunday afternoon 5/14/22
We fell asleep on a Sunday afternoon.
Somewhere in the world, people were hugging, sitting on the green grass,
watching children shouting. Old people were dying, their memories larger than
life filling the room with moving pictures playing out in dissolving dimensions.
A war raged on.
Buildings fell to crumbles.
The elderly and the unborn lived and died at the hands of the oppressor. The sky
patterns moved in mysterious waves as the future altered in the eye of the
beholder.
Our eyes grew heavy and our breathing was calm. Somehow with our hands held
close the weight of the world seemed faraway yet not forgotten.
The essence of love seeped into our closed eyes. Our tousled hair moved with the window breeze whispering to our thoughts like a prophet for
winged Mercury.
Shadows faded and brought us to this still place to be glimpsed like a quiet
mystery that will awaken in the vaults of time.
As we both lay asleep on a Sunday afternoon.
Verna has been writing poetry and prose along with drawing animation since childhood. Always referred to as a dreamer, she feels the need to share those visions to the world in hope that someone may stop long enough to admire drifting clouds or that bright flower peeping between asphalt. Earlier in life she was an associate editor for a punk rock fanzine she co-founded. Going back to her original roots Verna hopes to share it with a wider audience consisting of both lovers of music and literature.
We fell asleep on a Sunday afternoon.
Somewhere in the world, people were hugging, sitting on the green grass,
watching children shouting. Old people were dying, their memories larger than
life filling the room with moving pictures playing out in dissolving dimensions.
A war raged on.
Buildings fell to crumbles.
The elderly and the unborn lived and died at the hands of the oppressor. The sky
patterns moved in mysterious waves as the future altered in the eye of the
beholder.
Our eyes grew heavy and our breathing was calm. Somehow with our hands held
close the weight of the world seemed faraway yet not forgotten.
The essence of love seeped into our closed eyes. Our tousled hair moved with the window breeze whispering to our thoughts like a prophet for
winged Mercury.
Shadows faded and brought us to this still place to be glimpsed like a quiet
mystery that will awaken in the vaults of time.
As we both lay asleep on a Sunday afternoon.
Verna has been writing poetry and prose along with drawing animation since childhood. Always referred to as a dreamer, she feels the need to share those visions to the world in hope that someone may stop long enough to admire drifting clouds or that bright flower peeping between asphalt. Earlier in life she was an associate editor for a punk rock fanzine she co-founded. Going back to her original roots Verna hopes to share it with a wider audience consisting of both lovers of music and literature.
