We walk down corridors
without words
through harsh-lit halls
past unseen rooms, with blank forbidding doors.
Ahead of us, a porter presses on
he knows these sterile paths,
these numbing ways.
We struggle to keep up.
Along the pale-green walls
hang black-framed photos.
Their reddening autumn leaves and frost-rimed lawns
remind us seasons change.
Still we walk on
down corridors without windows.
Struggling to keep up.
3 comments:
like this a lot. Gets better every time I read it. Really good bit of writing.
Thanks
Love, P.
I just popped over to say hello, and thank you for your comment at my blog. But while I'm here I'll say, too, I like this poem.
Philip, Eryl - thank you!
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