Poem: Black Window

 

Black Window

 

townsfolk 

pass through the crosshairs,

the fourfold of the panes that form a cross,

delicate thin white bones.

 

marble on a grave

could be this devoid,

a surface that cries,

too smooth to have a throat

 

and therefore silent,

inky yet wordless.  soundless.

no sense in its watery evasion,

scared as a cuttlefish.

 

the townsfolk keep on,

treading through the crosshairs,

over and over,

halloaing and halloaing.

 

they teem numb as zeros,

kind in the center of the squares,

so different from what goes on in the corners,

such hints of the morose.

=============

2/24/24 ... changed a word

1/28/24 ... more mods

1/1/24  "the morose" replaces "morose"

12/23/23 ... removed "maybe" before "marble ..." 

We should be kind.  But half as kind as we are now, for it fosters complacency, and twice as alert to the danger of the fascism that is about to take over.  Unless people stop using a kindness mask to hide.