An open door slammed shut, then a breeze
Rushing through the hollows of the porch
And the windchime tinkles, like fairies, so free
Ballrooming through the air. The lush lawn scorched
By sun, islands of the dead in an ocean
Of green. The land—tainted from its depth
By violence. In the commotion of emotions,
None noticed the windchimes’ silence, like the death
Of a family, mother, father, son, impasse
At the grief of their smoldering bruised skin.
Of a family, cracked and shattered like rods of glass.
At the end, nothing but violence can win.
None would know from just the sound of windchimes,
Not of substance, but of mass—and the end times.
David Chen is a Chinese-American writer from Minnesota. His work has been recognized nationally by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and YoungArts, and is in or forthcoming at Kissing Dynamite, the Blue Marble Review, the Renaissance Review, the Lunar Journal, and elsewhere. He is also a co-EiC of Aster Lit, and you can find him at @davidsongchen on both Twitter and Instagram.