From My Door

I looked from my door,
To the world sprawling around me,
Painted roads and pipe cleaner trees,
Fresh breezes made of graphite lines,
What is reality if not something we create?
Who are we if not something worn down by the world?
Each step chosen is followed by one not,
Each word spoken is challenged by avenging silence,
Tomorrow’s smoldering laughter at today’s efforts,
Bring rain upon my unguarded street,
All colors run together in the deluge,
Levees break and carry off that, which I cannot hold,
Sun soaked asphalt lays atop my paint,
Bark grows where felt was washed,
A hot wind scorches the air,
I inhale and walk on,
Nothing is fresh or ideal,
The new is repetition,
I have nothing to contribute,
There is nothing I speak,
Only words that I say,
To deaf passing ears,
As I look from my door.