Door of Charity (the eighth September Song in 2010)

I stand speechless at the blind door of charity. My hands glide the surface of its disguise taunting me with its veiled entrance of precious fare. Hand to fist, knocking a wishing well’s secret, my fingers swell with hope, the clank of a serious note. Upon the obscure wooden frame I tap a Brailled plea, a sightless rap, a prayer made of skin and bone.

© 2010 by mark prime

Feeding America