Poetry

Skin deep, the moon
goes with me,
to bid goodbye to old year.
 
I have moved nearer
to the door knob,
of the unopened crypt.
The stale air leaks from the crumbling door.
 
The unfinished books
are under the frost. I cannot
shovel the walk. A grainy
picture emerges, of despair.
 
Going to dig up the ruins
to find the script.
Ink spills on the paper,
words depart.