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Dec 2016
It’s cold and dimly lit, this hall of everyday.
My fingers trace atoms, material and unforgiving.
I pause at the door, inconspicuous, but familiar.
Beneath it myth and whim cast shadows on the floor.
I can smell the gardens of wisdom and lore
and almost believe it a memory.
I don’t remember when I lost the key.
Good things are never seen going, but gone.
Steven Hutchison
Written by
Steven Hutchison  Kansas City
(Kansas City)   
  607
     Lior Gavra, victoria, --- and ---
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