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The Pallid Soul

This is my most recent submission to a poetry magazine. Like the others, it was rejected. I think I have only one really successful and clear poem, "Seasons." This one, though fitting to the free verse era, may be too unclear; or maybe it is just generally not very good! I can still share it with anyone who might happen to stop by here, though, can't I? The key to this poem is the doorman who guards the house. The poem is called "The Pallid Soul."

This soul, wan,
Pulsates slow and cold,
And buzzes like a crackling neon sign
That flickers from want of current.
Its doorman, too, leaning fallow,
Tips his Stetson
Perusing the eyes of its guests
For nothing more
Than to dress the future down
For a boy in man’s clothing.
On that fellow who lingers long
Cascades a systematic silence
While its doorman pulls the Stetson down,
Shivers,
And leaves the stoop to lock a creaking door.
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