On the Old Submissive Floor

Winter’s dawn has drawn as it must

Soon to rust the iron hinged doorway

The one that trapped the pointed finger

Where all that was for only once

 

Bits of dried and crackled color

Faintly holding lost resemblance

Passing sun storms on persistent

Blanched beyond the pallid hues

 

Now these eyes have outgrown reason

Cried as many seasons shed

In the clearing it is shown

The frame has fit the puzzled pane

 

Still my scrutinous eye searches

For an answer, glancing inward

Stunted by the icy blades

Hanging from my grim reflection

 

Rotted wood that mirrored diamond

Stood before me once before

Smashed these toes, drew crimson water

Stoic in its disregard

 

All that happened has become

The stilted visions passing through

Vanishing as though to squander

Gathered thoughts on barren sand

 

Pictures state a stranger’s case

Strangled by the deepest lines

Digging deeper towards life

To fell the death long overdue

 

Though I heard the crickets clamor

As I sunk into the board

Creaking as it knows itself to

On the old submissive floor

 

Scattering to reach remission

Exits can’t escape my eyes

As apprised of wasted matters

Tapering eternal haste

Author: Max Meunier

Feminist. Ailurophile. Musician. Poet. Human.

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