Feel it: like stitches on tattered clothing,
Shadows shaped in a mind,
Touched by a hand, empty, empty, hole
In an old coat; hanging on a hook,
Pawing at the wind, stiff and naked.
Flickering light a hope in a single file,
Trespassing blindly, dissolving into sorrow,
Scratching at a door. Elsewhere a memory,
Might please, might bring a tear.
A smile like a moon, flattened to a face,
Stiff, but not a bad fit. Now your eyes,
Crying, crying, then empty as a cloud, the
Air stirs in a temper, happiness, anger.
The obsolete yesterday, please a collector,
Blindly into an old pocket, quietly,
Leave it alone now. You have a hole,
You have an image, no one will look there.
Copyright © 05/09/18 lance sheridan®