Juan shuffles over to the shrivelled shape. He rolls it on its back and shakes his head. Nothing to do but sit here and wait: the old man is dying, but not dead yet. I hear him murmur, over and over: Through the fires of hell my angel will come! He is wrong. God knows, out here there are no angels. Only the sun.
Reason for writing:
My first ever go on a Mac, years ago (I had to write something!). Almost my last, too.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Steve Forde, Aries.