The Passage

by on November 4, 2017 :: 0 comments

The soul, suspended in the dark wet sleeve
of the shirt on the clothesline, hides
from the sunset

The sky’s engine purrs like a cat,
coiling inside its grayness

Shadows grow and darken the house –
all the rooms bulge with obscurity
and gather around the flickering candle

The man in dirty overalls sits in the barn’s shade
and looks at the rope, hanging from the beam,
gently swaying in the wind.

editors note:

Many doors to choose; only lead from here to there. – mh clay

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