by Anastassia Bougakova
Locked, anchored, beholden
To a simple truth,
Not bronze, not silver, nor golden
But a particular shade of rust:
It's the color of light as it spills on the morrow,
In the wings of a sparrow;
Ashy and aging, feathers matted with red.
And the color of creases in soft, leather skin
Years and years old,
Now papery thin,
Gleaming with fresh wet tracks of rain on flesh, on bone.
Bone frayed at the edges,
Like the hem of a well-worn dress,
Caught in brambles and hedges
And left to gather dust in the attic,
Where cobwebs eat at its faded silk,
Destroying memories and dreams
And other fancies of that ilk,
Belonging to bygone days .
The truth is a window set in red brick.
Its sill is flaked
And its window-pane thick,
And its edges are mottled with mold.
We dig at the dirt, at the faded old dress,
At the door in the attic, at the weeping aged face.
And we twist and we push and we press
All the locks we have forged
For the doors, gates, chains - all covered in rust,
But the keys to these locks
Have long turned to dust.
Anastassia lives in a nondescript apartment building on a nondescript street. She has a strong affinity for coffee and old books. Among her hobbies are reading, writing, and conversing at length with her cat.
Pieces Inspired by this Image
'On The Fourteenth Day'
'Chain of Hearts'