The Hanging, It
The Teacher
He supposed the question was in the day
Just exactly as the subject is night
The gnawing hound of bothersome query
That troubles one’s sleep and the daydreamed mind
The Veteran
The rustling dried leaves of the withered hand
Amber bottle in which its life is poured
Crouched ‘neath the wind flapped plastic shielded lodge
Tears streaming long hollowed eyes of despair
The Cashier
She wonders, passing dead items over electric eye
Her plastic ID badge displaying her saddened pale stare
As she mouths ignored identical greetings and goodbyes
Thinking of another lonely night without love, passion
The Student
The young boy sitting in the classroom, shying from himself
Has no eager ear, to bestow upon, his hopes and dreams
Dodging along the dangerous trail, leading to his cage
Sleeping, with a guarded diary of his shameful thoughts
© Copyrights G. Jones 2008
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