Paper shells

We walk as 

footsteps upon faces,


linking prodding, examining

fingers that judge shape,


To a love, love that isn't human. 

As we all walk three roads home,


Iron wire coat hangers bulging 

from our paper shells,


We are living, 

living as tin


Footsteps on a pavement of soul

We leave something more behind.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed