[A COLLECTION OF PROSE POEMS]
In walking down various paths, you can never be sure of what lies ahead.
You'll meet strangers, and cats, and haunting statues, and waving plants, and whatnot. The moments sewn into your feet as you take steps down the...
On the eleventh of September, a Sunday at one-something... Cannot fret to remember that the weather was gloomy, yet shining.
But the light wasn't for me that day.
It was for the construction of a pretentious pathwalk that endangered my mood, my aesthetic, my solitary contentment. A foot in, I felt the banana peel's effect.
There was no one to catch me but the umbrella, the wet cement, the eyes of the passersby, and the pity of the clouds that were about to cry.
Called in, called out. Received nothing but "ha-has" as I somersaulted down the rabbithole.
Left nothing to spare, I almost gave up. 'Til a familiar flame flared and pulled me back untucked.
Just like that, I did not only slip on the wet pavement. I unsuspectingly fell back in those familiar arms with no premise, no notice...
No caution.
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