"Untitled," by Jeff Morse

It was all so detached

At first just a hint of

Trust not delivered

Sitting on a rock

The waiting is onerous

You would think that by now

We should know better

Twisted into a mirror

Wished upon a car

Can you just listen for once

We know that the risk

was real

the infection was brittle

you can not dismiss

gravity, fire

the flood is real

real is real

repent from the dream of screams