The Door

I free the mournful face that hovers on the madness of my window,

The sill a library of numerical expressions, and god tiptoes with glass feet

On the refracting pane, breaking through the bastion of prison clouds

Onto the overcast side of the mirror. It’s pouring — raining in the company of

Misery — between the baying of treed dog’s and the heat of hissing cat’s —

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