Beneath the Ceiling

Poem

There was a whisper
Then the words sprung forth with a roar that matched the terrors of my heart
As the icicles melted into springtime
And the clock’s hands continued turning
There were things we could stop with simple phrases
But these, alas, leave us powerless
The changing seasons
The sun and moon
And constellations that tell our stories
Connect us despite being upside
Backwards
Re-imagined on a ceiling
In the center of the city

more by KRISTEN GREEN

Photograph by Robin Berghuijs

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