the room is edward hopper,
dusty sun beams shedding light
across the unmade bed.
i pin myself against the
shadow crucifix
created by the window frame
but there is no stigmata,
only the gentle cushion of the pillows
and the tousled, slept-in sheets.
across the road,
the bright white church stands
tuesday quiet
as i lie in patient, painted nostalgia.
armageddon, i am waiting.
No comments:
Post a Comment