hidden matters

i.

walking the Projects Gallery floor
i was stopped by a red-house of anger
a 2x4 stationed beside its lips
filled with words of silenced pain

it was as if it were
a hanging piece of mem'ry
a trail of tales long buried
now stretching to Today
a storage-bin harboring sin
polluting the grey cavities of some brain

ii.

i pondered the flights in my soul
the flotsam of sin nailing me to a cross
the contents of my red-house of anger
maintained discretely above my nose

hidden matters rose within me:
murderous rage of an abandoned child
racial slurs covered with burrs
the loneliness of being left alone
night after night in my red-house hiding
cowering like an arsonist with a torch inside
to burn toys meant to make one smile
to fill brothers with a terrifying fear

iii.

i slipped away with luggage in my head
relieved that i harmed no one on the way




*What does it matter if the cities are drab, the streets mean and ugly, so long as we bring them a beauty from deep within us.  Inner warmth can make those cold, hard streets friendly.
-Jean Sulivan

*Not to laugh, not to weep, not to detest, but to understand.
-Jean Sulivan