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White Overhead
October 15, 2021
The voices of the white forest have gone silent.
That grove of life is growing sleepy.
The darkening green
Is overrun by glassy white.
The whispers of the sky have dampened their praises.
That world it sheltered can no longer be defended.
The clarifying blue
Is just a template for the occupying white.
The endless forest flora has been forgotten.
That extravagance it gave can no longer be discovered.
The greens of the floor,
The bristle of the grass,
Now crumpled under a hefty sheet of white.
And yet,
The bustling little town has grown brighter.
That place of peace can thrive for ages.
The orange luminescence,
The aftereffect of warmth,
Is the only stronghold left in the vast white overhead.
© Steve S., Marblehead, MA
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I am Chris. I am a sophomore and live in Lapeer, Michigan. I try to push world-building and provoke thought in my writing. Assumption, interpretation, and the unknown are the key aspects of what I try to implement in my works.
My latest work, “White Overhead,” is a story that follows those concepts. The people who have read it all have different conceptualizations of what it is about. Even if I knew the truth behind the story of that forest, I could not describe what it entails. Its story is a concept of imagination with one thing that is known for certain: The white overhead is all that is left.