What does man say of his eminent death, when he follows his fate with a quavering breath? Does he mutter a truth to his comrade beside? Or swallow his fate as he grapples with pride? -Amy Struthers Image by: James Kovin


From the ground we lap the springs, that feed our vein and fade our wings and drip into a dust we sweep, as held by time in stills we keep. -Amy Struthers Image by Nathaniel Chang

Elegy For A Spire

Like petals on the burner, the pyre of Paris ignites, forming in the throes of her death plumes that meld incense to ash. -Amy Struthers (Image by: Nivenn Lanos)

The Death of a Popsicle

Ladies and gentlemen, if I may so say a few more words about our friend, who met her end when sat by famished birds: She lived a spotlight life you see, too sweet to be ignored, that’s why through panegyric, every cockroach states they’re floored. A model in the making when to Phoenix, she was…

The Death of Memory

Oh faculty of mine you keep like a bit on a painted horse, for as you spin, your markings thin, and life resumes its course. So will showers grace these grounds and darling buds will bloom and heat will rise to dry the cries that nurse the trodden womb. So soft were eyes that mirrored…