Poem: Exit

Exit

Outside there is fog and you cannot see
the quarry or it's hard grey stone.
It is oddly dark for mid-morning
and even the birds are subdued,

their august song almost a dirge,
hesitant and fearful,
anticipating, perhaps,
you first steps into the dark

unknown, anticipating
a forever fog, a journey
that will damage you,
where unseen thorns

will tear at your skin,
tear at your heart,
draining you
of life's hot blood, unaware

that you have trod this fogbound
path before, that you are less afraid
of the scars of walking in the blind mist
than remaining here, in the dark.

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The photograph was taken at the National Galleries of Art this weekend, as I wandered the art filled rooms with my sister. At the base of the rooms leading back to the main hall were these unique, unobtrusive exit signs on the baseboards. You can click on them for a larger view.

Tom