The world is burning silently, a fierce flame swelling through pine forests, mixing with the darkness of the sea. A figure walks through the night, his hands ablaze, his mind ablaze. The sound of breaking plates, of crumpling paper, shaking Earth, grows, is unleashed. Who am I to tread upon the rubble of the broken marble statues scattered here? Some flowers bloom in the glowing flicker of a lonesome candle and the moon is breathing, heavy, drunk, careening from its podium of dark towards the silence of the ground. A fool, his feet upon hot clay, still unformed. Like many eyes, the stars are opening to the sights of spring, the sights of all to come, of the new growth, a sliver of the sun cut by horizon.
cigarette smoke,
icy air of northbound birds:
the future grazing on my skin
A Toronto-based, Russian-born writer of fiction and poetry, Nikita Shorikov is
currently completing his third year of York University’s Creative Writing
program. He likes, among many things, dreams, experiences, animals, and art.
