Through the Screen Door

Tiny square openings; Rustic
by life-
Ageless views; Waging moments;
flapping in the breezes
of days gone by

Scenic dreams; Scenarios played
out-
Pulled through by the thoughts
of man-
A screen door museum; Revolutionized;
by the revolutionaries of art so
grand

We’ve become the stickmen on the
wall of the cave-
Leaving our mark; On planet Earth;
We don’t belong; Fit in, or out-
Justa’ poet in an unmarked grave-

A potter’s creation; Purposely flawed;
stamped on the poet’s lost soul-
Through the screen door comes the
final word-
as the credits begin to roll

Oh the poet in an unmarked grave-
lay forgotten by the shore-
The ‘ol woman cried; His words she
spoke-
for she was his midnight score

Flapping in the breeze; Were the pages
of time-
Screen door images, and youthful woes-
*Rest not ye words in an unmarked grave*
Plant them where the ancient
oak grows

© Lisa Hilbers
August 9th, 2005