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. SShe 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.
