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
lies,
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®

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