The little black dress

Laid before the western sky-
the barren land
the slopes of hills
the empty nests, no flight of birds.

She, the saintly child, a pedestrian
far from a cottage
where wind and rain carved their
names on aging splintered sill;
on her way
the path- stony and rough
the air, motionless.

Left behind the whitewashed
the bible lying among the crumbs
upon a wobbling table.

Once upon, the house took root
azure fire burned
under cauldron stew,
chimney smoke touched blue sky
like promises.

Then, truths swept around like
dust with a broom,
she in her eyes saw a pilgrimage-
down the path she strode
tears trying to drown her progress.

Through the wood in her little black dress,
then a glimpse of emptiness
naked shadows
and tombstones where old believers
were laid to eternal rest.

Traveled for a long time, tired and hungry
nights without end,
the sky muddied black;
then, the opening of the sea-
she stood in, imagining purity
imagining silence.

Copyright © 04/02/2016 lance sheridan®


6 comments on “The little black dress

  1. Engaging poetry that cannot help but draw the reader (me) in, Lance. Thank you for sharing.

  2. What an alluring writing opening this reader’s mind to reward it with awesome imaginations tagging along with the “Girl In The Black Dress.” I could almost feel the sadness and the coldness within – this is touching and inspiring at the same time. A great write.

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