by Myunique C. Green
Portent Americana by John Davis
At daubed peace he lies here,
a man, proud and mighty with a bundle
of roses as withered
as the hands that cradle them.
An emerald reminder of a fate all too real.
Only his ears remember the shots
that fired off into the night.
And only these tired eyes beheld
the moon as he glanced up to notice
its light barely bleeding
through thick, black fog.
He raced forward, forsaking
everything worth anything.
Today I will do what I want,
and tomorrow I will die.
Never expecting to stop
or stand still and watch
as the smog cleared suddenly
and the world rapidly transformed.
A culmination of all,
time will remain
stagnant for none.
This is the way of life.
