We’re fading mirages spent

by father times lease.

As we wait to balloon

to the neon sky,

In a haze,

day after day,

from twilights

dawning depths;

the sunrise bakes.

The slumbering horizon

awaits remnants

of earths scattered

souls to reunite with us.

When antiquity phones,

this world will yawn,

and it’s inhabitants

will slip into

their dormancy;

You slip into your

time capsule ruin

underneath the soil.

No matter what,

you’re a limited

release casted

by the tar cloaked angel.

You order your silhouette

to waltz back into

the atmosphere;

but in the end,

we’ll still be

drinking our dust.


by Chris Ozog


Christopher Ozog is a 23 year old writer who resides in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His work has previously appeared in Burningword Literary Journal, The Commonline, and Crack the Spine with work upcoming in Hello Horror.

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