Kneeling in a Small House on Hope Avenue
He lay prostrate before her, No longer aware of the kitchen floor, The democratic theory no longer availing, For he had been alone too long And goodness was still not an option. Salty tears rolled down his cheeks, Saying everything his lips would not form, His thoughts stumbling over themselves, His bare chest wracked with sobs And crickets; The butterflies had gone years ago. He spent three years out of his mind, Even moreso out of his heart, Night after night killing himself, Burning while she lived In a soft, warm home on Hope Avenue Where the houses look like gingerbread And the children look like dolls. But he didn't think about this now As he bowed at her blessed feet; He just thought about how the rain outside Pounded at every window, As if begging to come inside where it was warm. He found it odd that the throb of his heart Made the same sounds. Was it also the same message? He looked up to see what she thought, But she had already gone In search of a future. He finds himself crying alone once again.I have mixed feelings about this one...tell me what you think. Written October 22nd, 2001 © on Oct 22 2001 12:46 PM PST, Katrina Armour 0 • 8
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"He lay prostrate before her,..."