by Eli Hayes
From the April 2015 Issue

The old, crumbling building you see is a ghost’s garden

And as if inside a labyrinth, they chase, they wander

Death sparkles amidst flakes of hovering light

From black to white, the old poets hold their stone

Lonely, desolate, private, slow and still

From one to the next, the distortion remains

Wings in a house of mirrors,

And the barking of the fog.

Inspired by the 1992 film, “The Stone”