A Poem 4/6/2020

submitted by Gloria Herms, contributing writer
The doors closed. The sun silently slips through the back window, making herself known as a slice of yellow across the dusty table. The particles arise and dance in adoration.

            A shuffle in the dark, a grunt, …..low voice…., mumbles,… a sigh. The sofa sags on one side. The device illuminates a pale face.

            Her beauty unacknowledged, she aptly moves on, taking her dancers with her.

 

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