That Ochre Smoke

The screen door swings open
And closed.
Discord in the convenience of choral clues:
Something’s wrong.
The suburban sprawl that breeds fear
Steps away from the scene,
And the door swings open
and closed.
With tentative step,
Crossing the threshold,
Without that familiar breathtaking burden,
Into an empty but maintained entryway,
Inviting the curious November winds.
The quiet that lines the walls,
Waiting and watching for the osmotic regime change,
Sends a pin prick, multiplied, feet deep through the nerve.
Something’s wrong.
The scent of memories charring over embers draws the attention closer.
The sunlight peeks through the superficial fenetres,
Sans le lumière de vérité.
She/You passively peeks into the moving scene of perception,
Calling the moral weight to hammerpound my evicted chest,
Hollow resonance involuntarily sharing with the world,
My private pain that goes by the name of guilt.

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