remains of the day



When ideals betray- the ones dearly held

as goodness

as rightness

as truth-

and you open the door to that stranger,

the hurricane rips

through your home, tearing

at curtains and knocking

the photos from walls,

that shattering of glass forever

marring the image.


Once heavy objects, light as a feather

til they strike you as solid

proof that it was merely the walls

that kept them in place all those years.


Yet even with this

awful assault

it is the noise, oh the noise, 

as if permanent damage to ears

has occurred in the wake

and the only thing left is right

 outside your laid open mind

beyond that massive rupture where

yesterday, a door

an invitation today

to escape

into the quiet 

body of earth, and the

wisdom of the widening 










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M.C. Reardon


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