In halls of white we walk
imprisoned here by the gaze of dead faces
We search in those glassy depths for meaning
but find only brush strokes that the artist has forgotten
and the world goes on slowly spinning
trapped with us beneath those piercing stares
defiant to the walls that dare to contain it
but they have
And if the world is trapped
then those dead eyes hold no knowledge
or long ago lost the chance to whisper their truth
and now let words fall silently away
A weakness in the air speaks softly of the wall
its fault line fuses hidden in plain sight
waiting for a wandering hand to find the flame
and knock it to the gasoline-soaked floor
—
Turns out it’s hard to find good sledding hills in downtown Denver. Who knew?
—
Photo by gdtography from Pexels
The Light is On 
7 responses to “Dead Faces”
The writing on the walls…it is always there before someone enters this chamber you have written about. You have described it well…something for people to never agree to “die” for. When I fly through there I have to sing and some of the life joins in…then the party is alive and on and on and on…
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Sounds like a great way to get through it… always singing!
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Come to Alaska… we’ve got plenty.
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One day I’d love to go back!
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I’m sure!
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The photo looks like a hallway at Milwaukee Art Museum? Is it?
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I’m actually not sure! It probably is, if it looks familiar. I looked up something like “white walls” and thought it seemed to fit the poem. I haven’t been to Milwaukee yet (:
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