So, you think this might
be a good night
to open that door
and go in that room
and pull back that
worn out rug--
grab the rusty handle
of whatever they call
a door in the floor
and descend that
stupid splintered
tritely symbolic
ladder
to that
rocky cavernous
expanse
with that cobblestone
road that is only cobblestone
for the sake of style
that damn road
waiting for a
brave walk
to put a hint of wear
somewhere on its surface, anywhere
and then
wind my way
round the bend
past the damned
photo gallery
with those insipid snapshots
of that pathetic construct
in the black hat
with the clever "I'm a mystery" glare
with the silent lips
that speak the same
volume and insight that a dark
photo might let you hear
and if you hear anything
well, you see, you're the
clever one for not a word
was spoken
and there is that child's
drawing
of the guy posed
with the guitar
all the children loved
for what would a child love
after all
and then around another bend
that worn out game board
those game pieces
broken, scattered about unmoving
with those spotless dice
inviting play in a game
where only the winner knows the rules
and finally,
close to the destination,
that room full of echoes
in search of a solid surface
searching frantically for
validation from
a solid surface
a solid surface
without which an echo is not
and so, they float about
the mindless ugly little
baby that opens its mouth
and screams into the
vacuum
for all the air was
long ago used
and what must that scream
sound like?
perhaps, a frozen ocean
balancing on a needle
falling through an
endless glass tube
sliding on a single grain of sand
lost
I jump
and hope this is not
the final stop ...
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