Black is what the prisons are,
The stagnant vortex of the hours
Swept into totality,
Creeping in the perjured heart,
Bitter in the vulgar rhyme,
Bitter on the walls;
Black is where the devils dance
With time within
The creviced wall.
In a house of empty rooms, I thought I heard a door close down the long hall.
I couldn’t know whether someone had entered, whether someone had left.
No further step,... A CLOSING by May Miller
