Through the doors of emptiness
Across the stumbled brick
Where invaders take their blooms
Behind the chipped and chopped
Yesterdays slathered on the walls
Memories lie in ambush
For the ones who come, the strong.
Weakness treads no path into bygone
Hears no call, no memento mei
Whispered in the darkness,
Bolts doors of possible
Barricades minds made small
Amnesiac behind squint-shut eyes.
Across the threshold
Into doom
The fragile strong make their home.

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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