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A Small Act

Committed in darkness, not one to affect the world. From

that day on. The man. Removing part of himself. Almost as if

he was alone. Or at the very least. Surrounded. By laundry. Smelling

of lemon scented detergent. Breath of femininity.  And she. Possibly

dreaming, possibly awake. An innocent collaborator. To discover

who he was. And in such a way.


A year of guilt later she had ridden a bicycle uphill to this

high-walled place. A door carved with outstretched arms. Hands

feet and staring eyes. Eyes as blind as balls of wood. A daily crust. Clothes

washed in running water, hung to dry. A clutch of words. The power of

repetition. In silence. As time lessens. The pain, a match scraped over

stone. A candle in the night. To watch each flame disappearing into

its pool around the wick.


A small act. Nothing really to change the world. Committed in darkness.

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© Johnmichael Simon



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