It Washes Away
What would we talk of, if we were
suddenly unashamed
of what we say
to our faces
in the ceiling
formed by rain spots
from our leaking roof?
How damp is this room?
Underground, like the
basements up north, cold
catacombs, no windows,
or low windows,
imagining walking
in the shoes of passerby
Will we see through
the hole to the sky
through different eyes?
The one that forms
over the passing of
that non existent
cage called time
What would we hear
in the silence that
comes after the dawn
of the new year?
The rain? : a foreign sound,
drying up before it hits
the ground, way down here
(December, 2017)
Thistle Thoughts 