over-shoulder weather



I’ve walked the length of my sentence
long after the gates unlatched,
counting the gravel underfoot
as if each stone might still accuse.

The years have grown moss over my name,
but transgression carved into memory’s vestibule
means there is always one chair turned away,
its back carved with the shape of my absence.

I’ve mended the fence,
stitched the torn sleeve,
poured water into the roots I once scorched—
but the wind still carries
a syllable I cannot unhear.

So I move,
but not without the weight of glancing—
a pilgrim with a mirror in his pack,
catching the ghost of my own retreat.

And forward is a road
that keeps folding back on itself,
a loop of weathered timber and rain‑dark stone,
where even the horizon
wears my shadow like a borrowed coat,
and the door I step through
is always the same vestibule.









Poetry by anonface The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2025-09-16 at 00:09

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shells
At first read, I had you leaving prison, whatever your personal prison maybe, almost one step forward two steps back. Then unsure, makes me think which s a good thing.
2025-09-16


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
This could be a brave write, though I suspect it was written so as to be a bit of a teaser, with a double meaning. Nevertheless there are some unique metaphors that are to be admired and enjoyed in the reading of it. Blessings, Allen
2025-09-16