Hope; plucked of it's feathers

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It’s the sound of nails scraping the bottom
Of the barrel.
Manicured thoughts become overgrown
With doubts
And worries
And empty hearts filled to the brim with heavy, grey failures—
They pile up in black, sagging garbage bags and pollute the air.
Wipe away the smudges of they day’s dismays from the corners of teary eyes.
With the closing of that door so desperately desired to be opened,
Light comes streaming in from the windows.
They require oiling and new shutters, but one will open.
And escape is possible from this place
Stagnant with the stench of human judgment





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joyashford said...
Apr. 24 at 11:49 pm
Love it, especially "Stagnant with the stench of human judgment"
 
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