Frayed Signal

The flag snaps, sharp as a whipcrack,

breaking the dull gray with a brittle tongue.

Each slap a crack in the cold air,

a ragged breath tearing through the afternoon.

It beats against the pole, ragged and loose,

a stubborn sound with no home,

tattered edges biting at the wind,

like something forgotten

clinging to the last gust.

The hollow slap goes on—

a voice lost in empty space,

flapping raw

and unresolved.