Bård Ionson
@bardionson
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In the haze of a forgotten afternoon, we stood beside the rusted truck, the heat shimmering off the asphalt. You wore your glasses, a faint reflection of the sky in them, and I was a garden of wilting flowers in my printed dress. The world seemed to hold its breath. Behind us, the house watched with vacant windows, and a flag, both a banner and a shroud, draped itself over the bleached white bones of some forgotten beast. It was the same flag that hung in the air, a phantom against the trees. A whisper, like a sign hammered into the roadside of my mind, kept repeating a promise of cleansing, a stark red verse against the quiet decay of the day, a prayer for a nation's soul laid bare under the sun. 0 reply
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