If you turn from the midnight window, they <br />peek in. Look, all you see is the shakened <br />branch, grasping at wind. Yet the past will say <br />why stars tremble. You, when awakened, <br />see electric lobby doors alone open. <br />Does only coldness enter? Watch.... you should! . <br />Yesterdays linger, tangled like rope in <br />your path. I too view darkness. A ghost would. <br />Standing in shadows: vault-looted sentry, <br />I view my old home. She got the house. Sold <br />it. Now it, vacant but never empty, <br />will be torn down. If I'd.....well, that's passed old… <br />Worn-and-all-wrong welcome mat....how it clings! <br />Fading, untouched, I seem to pass through things. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> Crystal saints beam miracles, intercede <br />so Dawn's the morning saint shrined in my creed. <br />I'm mortal, falling flesh, dust-bin goner. <br />Yet shine- sheer miracle! -bless graced honour! <br />At death-my poems may psalm- let's say they're heard: <br />'Dawn taught end-stopped sinners to keep their word! '<br /><br />Glenn Bagshaw<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-mob-of-yesterdays/
