R.M. Dolin, November 7, 2023
Trudging stoically toward the barren late day field,
November wind rips through my well-worn clothes,
burning my face and numbing my fingers.
The distant horizon falsely holds
a promise of warmth wrapped in a lie
that’s become so necessary.
She is wind, tormenting memories
of what could have been,
pushing my heart toward echoes reserved for
moments I cannot face. Promises told
through the callousness of words,
searing my soul with painful precision,
mocking whispers across
the wind-swept everything of nothing.
Background poem for the novel, “The Dangling Conversation.” Kyle’s frustration with Nadia manifests itself in his isolation.
