A poem

There will always be
something in a Southern Winter
that makes me lonely.
Certain smells
light old tunnels in my brain,
and certain sounds forever
echo in old caverns,
and this Southern feeling has
its own empty room.
There is a body barely breathing
Inside the room,
with a face with no features.
There is no silver lining
when I stand in the
high hallways of bare brown trees.
The wind walks through like a
cloaked stranger, eyes turned to the ground,
and does not carry news but
brushes by me in silence.
And no one cares.
And that is the lever that pries my cap off, and
turns off all the lights.