Zebra Crossing

Sweet feminine syrup oozes out. Soon he returns to the same pale valley. The locomotive rhythm lulls him to snooze near the kaleidoscope-window. He’s been reinstalled on the border, where the roar of terror never ceases, like a statue of contradiction with a rifle in hand and love in heart. Reunion is a recurring rapture. She crosses the highway to pick him up. What a pity! A drunk-driver is a silhouette of death. Lifting the latch of sleep, he often slips out to the zebra crossing, where she walks across with a bunch of dreams. First published in The Literary Hatchet