The Mob

Winter leaves in a flourish of white. Shivering, huddling people pray for summer. Soaking up the first rays of sun, we dance. Shedding tears of joy we cry out for more. Delivered late as mail always is yet welcomed with open arms. Tanning to twin with lobsters, playing till seat soaks throug hshirts. Praises of summer can be heard through the moutains. Snap. poof. It disapears. Warmth resting from vigorous weeks of work. We cry, we shout. Cursing the light we've grown to love. Like a mother unwilling to disapoint, summer pushes with all her strength. Roasting all on earth to a crisp. Curses. Yelling. Where is the cold? Never are we satisfied but ever are we bold. Pitchforks in hand, we give chase.
Summer is waiting 
by the exit door in red
running from the mob

 

Whitney

VT

17 years old

More by Whitney

  • Awaiting An Invitation

    Tree limbs dance in
    the breeze of baited breath,
    roots threaten to break ground zero.
    time;
    too much
    too little
    only the trees understand 
    me

    glass stregthens
    mirrors melt
    clouds converge and darkness reigns
  • By Whitney

    Sentenced

    I am guilty

    The bars which restrain me
    are but my own fault

    I am guilty

    The lifeless walls
    frozen, unfeeling
    yield no give as I fight to break free

    My crimes:
    To want,
    the stars 
  • By Whitney

    Only A Memory

    The wind
    brushes my cheek, with a kiss. 
    Neck craned, my eyes
    skim the sky in bliss

    The scene before me,
    a canvas to interpret,
    I stare, deep within the soul of each star
    this game I refuse to forfeit.