you have acquired the air of a long ago torched church
that sits by the roadside in the middle of nowhere
towns that progress forgot, where no one stops
unless it’s to change a flat tire or take a piss.
sometimes when fireflies tracing an arc
on the hollow canvas of night
walled in behind your blank eyes
briefly illuminate apparitions,
flickers of recognition raise the dead
for a brief moment you blink
and smile and whisper a familiar name
but then your flame fades out.
Post image by Feans via Flickr
About the Author:
Lucas Chib grew up on the East African Coast. He lives in the East Coast of the US. His poetry has appeared in journals including Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Glasgow Review of Books, Ink Sweat and Tears. Some of his writing can be found on his website-in-progress: daimajinn.com