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