Charles Kish  ART

In the doorway of her empty closet,

shadows dance in wicked chaos,

temporal screams cry into silent song,

replayed by voices who do not belong.

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In the doorway of her empty closet,

poverty skews from its true shape of virtue,

tattoos of lack stain black below skin,

looting away gifts from each room within.

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In the doorway of her empty closet,

closed doors conceal the horns in life lukewarm,

we nestle in isolation to pave the road later,

blind to the Christ in the eyes of our neighbor.