I don’t know why we painted the front
porch this silver grey
the wood is still flaky
still brown under it’s neutral coat
like those kids
flapping around in their plastic cable knit
sweaters
feet still land bound with the rest of us
neither do I know why I pretend to relax on
these damned grey chairs
on the grey porch
more grey
clouds are gathering their wool
again
creamy whites and blues
and that.. color
I don’t know why the bedroom walls are
yellow
drenched in sunlight that
doesn’t fry the skin
perpetual afternoon
we’ll find the shadows have slunk
into the kitchen their knuckles
swollen and swinging
temporary truce with the myriad
reeks
I don’t know why I am smoking a silver
cigarette
I don’t smoke
somehow they end up snared
between my fingers
smoke floods down the steps
of golden twilight song
my heart twists
gratefulness an indelible
truth.
Powerfully penned, Clay. Another excellent write my friend. I think we’ve all had those kinda days so your not alone. Hopefully it gets better soon hang in there brother. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, my friend. It passes eventually.
The colors spray across your page. Very good ink. The description puts the reader in a chair right on that porch.
Bat
Thank you, Bat. I studied color theory for a bit, it shows up when writing sometimes.