Here you will notice mild influences from Frost as well as Dickinson. Not my personal style really, just dabbling and rambling
~
On a dark evening,
Down on the lighted cobblestone
Of the downtown alley
Running between stores,
We stopped a moment,
Catching our breath to say,
"How, a light?"
A small coin it was, but a penny.
Dirty and trodden underfoot,
In accordance with society's ban of it.
The chill of it struck me
But I dropped it into my pocket nevertheless,
Before the dank scents of death
About the place, could blind us.
Wasteland is hidden here,
Beneath a crumbling façade.
Played over and covered up —
Charades on the table, winning —
Ah, yes, winning was
Always something we craved.
These dark treasures kill hope.
And as a forgotten penny,
We are left with words we cannot speak,
From dust to dust; nay, turn your cheek —
~