I quiver gently, these proud useless minor days, dead
tree still standing wickedly, too dumb to fall, the
sap of life upright by chance alone, each breeze a
potent ached for force of quick release, but no, I
stand, I stand my ground, decay before your very eyes,
no wisdom left to sparkle this dead day, a victim only
of my own sweet human lies, a criminal in my waste of
others’ time, their fervent secondary thoughts. Not
here, not gone, too quick to bury, a furtive prisoner
in my own polluted shell, I whisper sigh hiccup my
visionary role of yesterday, a monument to passion
spent, a rift in precious time, a wreck too savage to
restore, a tombstone softly standing.
About Grant Flint
Grant Flint was born in a Nebraska at the beginning of The Great Depression. His short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in The Nation, Poetry, Poetry New York, Weber, Amelia, Slow Trains, Common Ties, and other print and online journals. He was memoir winner in the 2007 Soulmaking Literary Contest and appeared in the 2007 Writer’s Digest Short Short Story Competition
Collection. He has recently finished a series of seven memoir/novels, collectively called, The Innocent Sensualist, the Great American Novel. Shy, he does stand-up comedy.
