by Hazel J. Hall

he sits at
the edge of his stool. at
the end of things.
a tumultuous tower before
the edge of void, pressing in;
a piano key hit before
the void of what
we do not know. every sight
to be seen stares back at us now.
him pressing those keys,
playing piano, head tossed back
&gazing up to sky
&&&and seeing
&our lasting resonance
our closing song played with shut eyes, blackness
before the blackness
&&a finale
&&&every part of our own making
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&and still he smiles.

Hazel J. Hall

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Hazel J. Hall (she/they) is an eighteen-year-old disabled-queer writer based in rural New Hampshire. Right now, she is pursuing an English degree while working on her first novel. More of Hazel’s work can be found in Wishbone Words, Overtly Lit, and Beltway Poetry Quarterly, with other pieces forthcoming or visible at their site, hazeljhall.com.

_{^{Artist: Denis Valakhanovich}}