A golden warmth reflected from her face.
She closed her eyes.
It is here.
The last great light is here.
She leaned back in the mound of trash
imagining downy cloud instead.
It is here.
Is it really here?
She opened her eyes,
reaching up to curving shapes.
Wind blew bags and paper beside her
and she sighed out all the hunger.
It is here
and beautiful.
The heat grew,
the light orange.
The wind blew,
her voice hoarse.
“It is here!”
She closed her stinging eyes
with litter on her face.
Hands clasped at nothing.
No air.
It is here.
Please share any suggestions or criticism you may have. This is an early draft and could easily be improved.
The prompts and guidelines of this challenge are found on Rach Writes.
I chose to write a poem with a twist using the prompts:
and
