a half-sunken bridge spanned a boggy marsh and every other year or so someone from the adjacent towns there was lost, never to be found. boundary lines were redrawn which made the bog a sorta no man’s land and no one had to claim the dead upon their land. children were outlawed from crossing the bridge and when they grew into teenagers the bog became a common hideaway where adults rarely looked. were they to be sought out, they would not be found. for those who wished to be left alone would never be seen again. only the bog and the bridge, and the sky kept the secrets.
we are not so unlike clouds in the sky, are we, puffy and bleached turning gray, you can see through us and other times opaque we hide our secrets inside us, coming for us and striking through they do, yet still we remain intrinsically unscarred or untouched, reflecting it all sea to sea and the earth, where we travel we leave the residue our prints passing silently along, forensics loves a cloud, made of water and vapor we are and capable of many forms, evocative of endless feelingstates, containing our own electromagnetic storms we are carried by winds and made by trial and fire, under certain conditions we scatter and the streets become empty and clear like the sky, monotonous, monochromatic we are pressured by fronts and driven to tears