For Time Poem by L'Angley S Delmonte

Glory happens
In the places
That are reserved for
Sitting in the grimy corner
Three lines into one
Wayward
Shaking hands the fury of the storm
Cupped around
The parted end of humanity
Fire, try feebly to touch
Burn my fears
Black shadow of green colour
Dances across
Sulks, if you will
Lined paper,
Pressed like chewed, hardened gum
To the wall
Nine black tiles
For every red one
Sometimes stub of pencil
Just enough to be pocketed so

No one knows

A feeble sort of novel
Stream of unconsciousness
On the back of the
Black plastic door.
scratched
façades