this is not a love
poem, the howl of storm

pain, the rain inside.
The forever house

on the dead end lane,
over-grown, deeply

rutted tracks, bordered
by forget-me-nots.

Two plain Janes stand
guard with crucifixes

and Bibles of grief.
They point to the sky,

dispense sunglasses.
Is everything fair

in love or war?
It’s better to know.

Go, open the door,
look into the dark.
 

Artwork by Author, acrylic, household paint and collage on canvas.