What was thought to be a black fleece
was not a black fleece. It was just a white
cloud full of lice, & the rain was on a long
hiatus.
& he no longer held his chalice.
What was in his trembling hand was
only the empty skull of Time,
convincing him that he still has
a chance
to win ————-
Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia where he teaches English. His work has appeared in Mad Swirl, Stride Magazine, Red Fez, BlazeVox, Otoliths, streetcake, & elsewhere. His debut poetry chapbook Experimental Ruminations was published in September 2012 by Fowlpox Press (Canada). From time to time he blogs at – aliznaidi.blogspot.com
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