I kid you not.
I use to see the future.
Visions so bright, so clear.
A brown house on a hill, by a tree line, near a lake.
Ducks would fly to and fro.
And the warm wind,
Ah the warm wind, so comfortable, it teased our necks.
From the window we’d watch,
With a cup of coffee in hand.
Down by the dock, we could see the children play.
With nets in hand, they tried to catch those slick and witty frogs.
Only to see them escape in that brown and murky water.
And yet they tried and tried.
She so cute in pig tails.
He sun burnt, red with freckles.
They would play and play without a worry.
So carefree, so beautiful.
But the visions are no longer clear or bright.
Fading, darker and darker is the house on the hill.
All I can see are the black shadows of a moonless night.
As they haunt the dock, near the lake, by the brown house.
And yet, it’s hard to believe that I once saw the future.
Lake House
Ivan Brkaric is pushing 30 and working a dead-end job, working nights. He has started writing to stay awake. The poems in this issue of Why Vandalism? are his first published work.