Start your story near the end and work backwards;
you don’t know how much time is left to tell it,
so choose a point and begin, just begin,
maybe right before the cruel blank edge.
Very well: one foot was cut in two by the border,
toes floating in the unseen void,
every later step invisible.
The cracks alongside were eloquent;
thin alternate paths not followed
that closed for lack of traffic.
The trees by the road waved sign language,
warnings forever ignored.
I caught a glimpse of the past and future:
a concrete path where a chicken had walked
before it dried, leaving footprints
like writing on a large sheet of paper,
entering at top right and exiting,
after various twists, turns and pauses
to check out shiny nothings, at bottom left.
Start at the end because we are the end.
Published in Unapologetic
S.C. Flynn 