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
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