this is not a love
poem, the howl of storm
pain, the rain inside.
The forever house
on the dead end lane,
over-grown, deeply
rutted tracks, bordered
by forget-me-nots.
Two plain Janes stand
guard with crucifixes
and Bibles of grief.
They point to the sky,
dispense sunglasses.
Is everything fair
in love or war?
It’s better to know.
Go, open the door,
look into the dark.
Artwork by Author, acrylic, household paint and collage on canvas.
The Purple Hermit 
I really like the artwork for the poem…we are too often caught in the mythology of our superstitious beliefs about truth and its value. Time to open the door and get out of that upside down house….
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Lovely to have your feedback, thanks. The artwork is a detail from a larger painting
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