Inside this small cold house,
all belief is doubting
hymns the choir sang,
all our breaths in harness
to our clouded lips,
all mouths downtrodden,
and atmosphere defiling,
fear, despair,
at this terrible unknowing,
clouds rolling in,
faceless faces,
nowhere to hide,
a forever chill
in fogs that sink low,
muffle our voices,
compress our brains
until we know nothing clear,
cracked hands,
bleeding cheeks,
human masks breaking off
in large chunks,
every moment
a parched sacrifice to death,
resigned to sitting here,
no more heaven,
nothing invisible out there,
merely the stones,
the fruitless soil,
the inevitable harder way.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.