It was all empty
Then they saw a space
This was what they thought was a good place
They needed to pick up the pace
Looking up it seemed great
They decided to send a mate
Didn't know his face
But he could get to it at any rate
Heard some calls
Started to make some scrawls
Trying to avoid any falls
Now all you see is painted walls
About the Creator
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More stories from Christopher Beard and writers in Poets and other communities.
Lightning Never Strikes Twice
The distant rumble, the sudden deluge, the crescendo of sound, the flash of light, the explosive energy — it never gets old. I became an amateur storm chaser about two years ago. My wife, Cindy suggested it. Sort of. She said, "Alex, you know this cancer is killing me. I've come to terms with that, but you're smothering me. Go join a band, write a book, or become a storm chaser, for all I care. I love you, but you need a hobby."
By Julie Lacksonen5 days ago in Fiction
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