Writing

Poem: An Enclosed Fight

I envisage a picture 

of the basement

I never had;

ceilings high, ceilings low,

smokey brick or white as milk.

Ceilings old, ceilings new,

some with beams of timber hewed.

Some sport crystal chandeliers

their droplets shaped like human tears,

others just a bulb and shade

with dimmer switch to slowly fade.

In corners dark as haze, 

hard to erase

Cobwebs dangle to kiss your face

Ceilings in each building you pass by

The ceiling to our earth,

 is the sky.