The House of The Hanged Man- Dawn Mueller

The House of the Hanged Man

The squeaky floorboards
had nothing more to say, and
neither did the doors,

but the hall clock just
wouldn’t stop tsk-tsk-tsking
about it

It was like every other
day before-
except that he wasn’t.

Morning just kept coming
wiping its yellow hands 
all over the world,

as if it were appropriate
to go around painting sepulchers
in such bold color.

Constellate Literary Journal

About the contributor

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