Trying out my poetic wings, which hopefully will not pull an Icharis and melt while I soar too close to the sun.
Recently, I joined a Flash Fiction page - every Friday, I absorb a picture they post, then I write what comes to me based on the scene they provide. Below is the picture and my entry. Apologies for the Poe-like tone--it was what came to me last night at midnight (when I decided to ignore sleep and write instead).
Heat sears the air,
Shimmering distortion vibrates a sandstone roof.
The fire of afternoon brilliance
Shades the dips and dells of
Craggy rock and verdant moss.
It melds heat into the sun-kissed bones
Of citizens below.
Unconcerned, they while away treasured moments,
Chatting with the Reaper
Above the gong
That tolls their final hours,
Sun-blinded and unprepared.
Light flees across the slopes,
Lining leaves and roots
With golden shadow.
It plays in the crevasses and ridges,
Chases the darkness down the cracks
Before dancing away,
Flirting with the whelming blackness
Like a laugh that dies before it is heard,
The colors fade.
Amber, then silver, then gray,
The citizens turn their faces skyward,
The knell sounds its clanging strokes.
Four hours left,
Three, two, and one,
Sweeps over once more.
And there are no stars tonight.