Scuffed Wooden Doorway

 
The evening brings the grey, which eats the amber
flowing from celestial fires. The monochromatic shades
encroach on stray rays of golden optimism,
and sever their entry to the blocked building,
its blinds down.


Through the scuffed wooden doorway
lie the unrested twitches, faltering through their routine,
wretched with threadbare comfort.
The dog-eared calendar deceptively stains its icy fingers
in hair dye.


The air is thick with their mottled memories,
challenged only by sharp slices of the unforgotten.
Pills rattle against brittle bones, staccato sentries
reporting to the doctor's creaking black bag,
in real time.


Unanswered questions are diverted to this address,
although the post office deliveries weigh less
than the collections in the mortician's van.