Fred Aiken Writing

explosions that look like soda blasting off through the midnight sky

as citrus drips from veins made from vanilla dreams

caressing unguarded moments to be shared alone

off the shore of some isolated island in the middle of nowhere

as countless invisible particles help define the known and unknown

hiding in the distance

coming with all the baggage never checked

because it’s carry-on,

and no one thought it’d hide the world’s secret shooting through the ozone