The Green Stairs
I descend
rust behind the paint
the illusion
the deceit
where is my receipt, I want my paint back
For the days when I could pretend
and upon reaching the penultimate step
I wish to turn back, but alas it is too late for that,
for mine eyes have been set on the truth of rust
I step down onto the concrete.
The gust, the gale,
the cool night breeze
its tongue lashes against my chapped skin
I turn to the shelter of the garage
the lemon tree above
the wind
the lemons fall
and, as I emerge,
I am struck by the yellow bomb
it splits open
I wish it were my head.

Crit. for crit..
Last edited by ss311 at May 24, 2008,