The Drought

Published on Wed, 20^th Aug 2025 at 23:04

by William Troup

Low upon the lake, a docile crescent moon; abash, yet stolid, and luminous to a fault. The stars lay silent, affixed upon the sky, and this thespian claims the night, as a daughter purloins the south. What of the black dahlias? in repose they haunt the fields and beseech the daughter to rise, yet onward, is the drought ...