The nights are full of stairwells painted
in maroon like dried blood.
Around here they remember the tenants
and divide things by the rainy days—
the frantic feelings are all the same.
Empties sounding like snare drums and sinks
running incessantly.
Endlessly keeping the tempo.
Hands clinch another saying all the things silence
has known all along.
And the bringing of another with tension,
like long hallways,
like airport runways with burnt out bulbs.
And heavy coats too.
Fighting is that feeling losers know like mirrors that are made of metal.
Stairs are stopped for the long climb but
everyone walks up the escalator.
I guess we have to keep moving.
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I appreciate your use of imagery. Stairs leading where? – the reader is asked to contemplate. The stairway of a life lived, although with great pain (blood) and sorrow (endlessly, long climb).
Sharon from Starbucks :)
Very touching.