There’s a retreat home that I would fantasize about

at every turn of the moon.

Where two weeks would pass ’til turmoil recedes

at the start of the rouge blast of pain and horror.

Like hell preceding heaven.

Where familiar faces are stored away beyond sight.

Their questioning looks concealed behind wooden shutters on my

artful window.

Keeping me out of their sight.

Like hiding from a storm.

Like waiting for the sun to come again.

A necessary escape.

A temporary isolation.

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