Leveler Poetry Journal
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Trees are swaying to the ebb and flow of time.  In a small room in a basement, a rug is unrolled and a boy and girl get comfortable with each other.  The room is filled with dark items.  Soon, a lie will be born.  The lie will be held briefly by the boy.  Then, he will give it to the girl.  This exchange of words will continue for days, weeks, years.  Finally, the truth will emerge as a small bird.  The truth will fly away as a small bird, and the truth will build a nest in the shape of a small basement room.  Isn’t this the way it always ends?  With words as fragile as small blue eggs?

Bernd Sauermann