Weather,
a pencil drawing, obsidian
and lead before the first tear falls.

Power surges,
bulb condemned on thin line,
dull glow sparks, semblance of still life.

Shadow plays the walls,
flash somber on curdled cream,
faded paper drinks the dying sun.

Inside, outside,
bones grow brittle rickety,
pasty sallow shades of D minus.

Bent back crawls
along these ink smudged halls,
pallid lost, sketched in hidden corners.

©2012 Rose Aiello Morales