Sugar Dust House

The Licorice limbed, trees are the first greeters upon our ascent, to Sugar Dust House.

Rustling leaves make a sound, as if slowly drawing breath and releasing onto the cool ether.

They lie like damp nutmeg parchment, underneath our heedful stepping.

The antiquated brick house

With its windows that have gone into the dark;

That looks upon us.

Mottled and white, the old paint like sugar dust, a soft powdering held to form, by many an autumns damp and winter sun fires.

I wonder what tales these erect stones will release to me. I anticipate the entry.

Through its door, isolation is the only ceremony.

I look within only to find a shelter, a great hush; except for an eerie, whistle lullaby. It pushes through an upstairs rotted window pane.

Perhaps it is a lost siren song calling to us all, singing itself home;

I will listen.

 

2017-(c) Duskflyer Vision Art and Writings

This content contains material protected under Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this content may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author

 

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