It Was Grey
It was grey.
All of it.
The color of terror.
The color of the trauma.
Grey is the memory
That only the presence of Christ
Could erase .
I am standing on something
I can’t see what it is
It’s not as tall as a bar stool
It’s taller than a little kid’s stool
It’s not a trunk
It’s not small
It’s not as tall as a table
Why does it matter?
Because it’s the only real thing in the place.
The 100 year old stone cellar’s not real
The abandoned pews upstairs are not real
The moldy, rank smell doesn’t exist
And I’m not real
The little child –
Positioned – back to –
Must be somebody else.
It can”t be me.
This image crowds out
…everything…