Apart From the Decay
an old shed leans crookedly in the tall
grass.
a door is lifted and opened.
like a warn vinyl record to the needle
rusty hinges
snap and crackle as they turn.
between slight variations in tone metallic
yesterdays speak through hinged lips.
i am apart from the decay.
now little is inside except some dust with
a
few oddities scattered around.
a dented paint can that had been knocked
over,
the paint lieing on the floor in a puddle.
dried and splintered out in an ornate
pattern
in shades of dark yellow.
it seems to pure for its surroundings.
the paint speaks through its flat chipped
throat lowly.
i am apart from the decay.
outside the sun overhead has learned
to speak in parables but the dandilions
dont seem to mind.
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