poetry

iron gates of black

up the road
paved, pocked, and grayed
or down it, a bit
near the tall-grass deer field
once a farm
now marked– ‘land for sale’
in peeling, red-paint letters
flattened upon
a square-post wooden sign
towers– a stone home
atop a slim, emerald hill’s incline
the house, several times larger
than those humbler homes
that surround
wrought iron gates of black
grow tall– out of their shadows
the fence-wall, spanning wide
tho the heavy gates, at the center
swung ajar
and I don’t know
who lives there
and whomever lives
there
behind the iron gates
doesn’t know– of me
never, the other seen
never, the gates’ moans
heard
creaking open
slightly more
or less
ajar
tho moved
by someone–
and never
the gates of iron
seen
fully closed

Published by

Eric

I've come to write.

2 thoughts on “iron gates of black”

  1. Makes me feel insignificant. Like even the grandest of them all is alone, but leaving hints to be seen. I’ve no idea if you meant that, but it’s full of feeling and visuals.

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