Tin Glass

today before a voice spitting box,
before burning coal that a mountain hill cold chase,
below these mountain slopes that a fog blind,
i dine in a house of meaness,
evil stitched eyes that in darkness burn,
silent tones that wish you away,
and this be the way they be,
that invite you by mouth,
yet deep in a regret fountain springs,
cursing and wishing,
that to forfeit this a date you will,

an old black mans' selfishness,
that brag and boast 'cause they have,
serve a poor boy with a glass porridge,
tin glass that a handle lacks,
burns to remind you of a door never to knock,
scars that a china clay makes you crave,
a meal served in a two thoughts,
just your worms to feed,
and you but to taste,
sad to they for such triffles barely a soul perturb,

these little deeds,
painted by cold scolding eyes,
that dart in stares thrown in selective glances,
be but wood that burns,
soon consumed by the fire,
that out and within burns,
and all but ashes be left,
and a wind that blows,
everything carries,
nothing left a reminder,
never a memory of heat that did warm,
maybe a soot that a a wall did coat,
or a smoke that a cough left,

wave you trees in disbelief,
these walls much have seen,
they cry not,
just crack in pitiful pain,
that from years gone sprout,
a silent wailing never heard..


©2011