by RW Franklin

Wild are the weeds that grow

on Gypsy Lane. Long stems,

sun-brown. Wilting flowers,

forgotten in mid-bloom.

August winds bring flames.

The wild woods sleep

and dream of rain drops.

Twisted branches droop low.

Dried, flaking leaves sing prayers

of cooler days. Time is just

a memory. Consciousness

forgotten at the intersection.

Gypsy Lane is not where you come to find yourself.

It is not where you lose yourself.

It is where your self is stolen,

and your dreams are lost.

We are the reckless

tombs, the chaotic stumps of morals.

Fall’s breeze blows a kiss to Summer’s wind

anywhere but on Gypsy Lane.

---

RW Franklin lives in Northeast Ohio with her incredibly supportive husband. Her writing has appeared in Five:2:One Magazine‘s #thesideshow. She has been very involved in her local writing community and encourages her fellow writers to do the same.