A palace, as it felt. Though I knew it was not. But it melted all my longings. A face of beauty lit upon the stairs, the tall bright walls and open space of light. My heart saw rest. It saw the end. And it rejoiced.

Now a house of labor. It holds pain and frustration, but shelter. It was not the proclamation of glory but it was a stanchion of stone. It was a food of substance. Sustaining and growing. If with sweat and aches.

I have ten steps to make. That is all this place can contain. Dirty and stained it covers me. Enclosed and caged. It is all I have and it is not mine. I am as nothing as the sound of joy under these walls.

I wish the street light would go out. Then perhaps I could sleep. I fight the hungry cold with a coarse blanket. I could move down the road. Find better cover from the wind. But I don't. This is my place. This is my home.


Skip said...

Good work. Have I told you that I like your style? I do.

Mary Massie said...

how wonderfully depressing. i really like it!