Danielle Crawford

by Best Poem

Decomposition

Rust licks pipes,
here, ancient tracks
split asphalt.
With the stench of stale
cigarettes, we are welcome:
Home. The ghost of ivy on brick, now
a gray sketch, clinging.
In daylight, volume is muted.
But again, the deadbolt clicks and
with a twist, the stars
unlock the night.
Here, the sky
criss-crossed like barbed wire.
Clouds inhale the heavens.
Images haunt
this roofless universe,
the insomniac city.
How many lives ago?
Maybe it was beautiful
glorious even
before us.
Picking up fragments:
glass splinters, sparse needles, so many
emptied cans.
Here, some have lost
tenderness, money,
the will to go on.
They are bleak, battered, but
they know color:
red, white, blue
and green.

Danielle Crawford is a student studying creative writing and fine art at Western Washington University in Bellingham, WA. Previously, her writing, artwork and photography have appeared in OmniArts, Jeopardy Magazine, Labyrinth, InkSpeak, OneYearOfWritingAndHealing.com; among others.

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