Monday, November 11, 2013

Inside The Ink (A Poem)

rorshach

There is a face
In the black light
Of a frozen window
And it’s hands
Are reaching out
Into a world,
This town a ruin
That folds atop itself
Like a mandolin retired
To the farthest corner
Of a dusty room,
The upper-floor grave
Of an almost-empty house.
The town is gone,
It’s people have fled
The weekly world news
Of another war,
And words have
Lodged themselves
Into the mouths
Of an angry God
Who no longer gives orders.
The world has gone awry,
The sheep are roaming,
Crazy men are burning books
In the tin cans
Of their own houses,
And the smoke…
It is slowly choking us off.


Written for a prompt at MindLoveMisery

3 comments:

  1. What a fantastic statement this makes......great writing. I especially love "like a mandolin retired to the farthest corner of a dusty room."

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  2. Very sinister, vivid, and profound brilliant work Stacy!

    ReplyDelete

Thank you for taking the time to comment, it is so appreciated. Your thoughts and critiques are always welcome! I will be by to visit your blog soon!