/lit/ - Literature

Out there
The world is in flames, or so we are told,
Will the truth be found in dusty settled ashes,
Or will it be found, still out there, lurking,
Creeping anxiously on its soft belly,
Screeching at the light.

I wonder what kind of animal it is,
Hidden and waiting,
Wings held tightly against its body,
In a tight hemmed in space,
The prospector finds the crack,
And when opened, in an instant,
Black wings unfold,
Stretch out,
And the figure disappears into the air.

Through fingers, pages and eyes,
It leaves its trail,
Glimmering scales flutter in its wake
For eager seekers to chase.