S Poem by Adrianne Quinlan

A dry darkness like that of a new moon
Is spreading within us.
We climb the daily up-hill path,
Stick figures in line,
With the precision of the northern army,
Seeking the one letter god which hovers above us,
Great and glowing.

Made up of the stuff of rainbows,
It eludes our grasp,
Drifting always just out of reach.

Personal jets sore in attempt to reach it
But succeed only in applying
That damned vertical line that lures and tempts us,
Temporarily altering the god's appearance
Until the next time we look.