by Alexa Stevens

There is a sharp sleek outline on the hallway wall,
Pretending to be a metaphor.
Graphite lines chase their way up the outline,
Pausing and dipping for moments in time.
Many have inhabited the metaphor,
Many more will. The lines flow
Up, and are broken at the top.
There, the lines flatten themselves into
Measurements, a million different
Heights pretending to be a person.
I have smudged the graphite, accidentally.
The person becomes indistinct and much more like a
Metaphor. Almost a clique, like the
Layers of roots across the road.
Layers soothed and blanketed over layers, until
Rot had grown teeth and appetite.
The tree across the road leans on the house like a walking cane,
But it cannot survive for much longer.
Will the next metaphorical person still see it?
I leave a pencil and a camera for them, just in case.