People
people
we meet
journey
through our life
often
unnoticed
intangible
like
disappearing snowflakes
precipitating
out of moisture in the clouds;
some
of them stay, but
not
for long
some
grow into a distant memory
unconscious
realisation
an
afterthought, to which
we
unwillingly circle back
like
a déjà vu,
at
times abruptly,
an
imminent storm
covering
the sky brusquely
until
they disappear, in a flesh
not
worth our time, but
others
mark us
for
a lifetime
every
so often,
resembling
a fresh breeze
in
the early spring, and
they
stay for a while
like
a lengthy slender vine
leaving
its ingrained mark, so
we
keep them in our hearts
as
long as we need
soundlessly
yearning for the day
we
capture their hearts,
impalpable
but real
lingering
***
in
the people left behind
Precarious Existence
fear,
ever-present
during
the forced
lockdown
existence
not
knowing what the future holds
our
only authority,
the
unyielding persistence, to
keep
art alive, so
it incessantly unfolds
Andrea
Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives and works in Sydney,
Australia. She’s an amateur photographer and author of prose and poetry. She
writes at night when everyone is asleep; when she lacks words to express
herself, she uses photography to speak for her. Her literary art appears or is
forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, Door Is A Jar, The Dribble Drabble
Review, Five on the Fifth, Roi Fainéant Press, Your Impossible Voice, 50 Give
or Take Anthologies and elsewhere. She spends many an hour fiddling around with
her website damicandrea.wordpress.com
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