I recently rediscovered a writing format that I had once loved. It is known as the Fifty, for those who are unfamiliar with it, it is a poem, song or story which consists of fifty words.
I’ve started doing some poetry in this manner again, and I must say that it is quite enjoyable.
Here’s an older poem I had uncovered from the dust recently:
melancholy down the cracked grey sidewalks
and empty streets,
past bent and broken yield signs.
His eyes empty,
like that of a ghost
inside that tattered brown ensemble.
Walking as if he was invisible,
and he was,
to everyone but me.
It was, the lily in his hand.