I often picture my grandpa's barn.

Although I have never seen him...

I imagine a field of magenta grain

On an eerie moonlit night.

Shards of glass reflecting the sky.

Sharp and piercing,

As if he were grimacing and mocking, looking upon.

Envisioning a red lit room
A madam's parlor hidden in the glow

And all the women he captured in the meadow.

Lurk about somewhere in the midst

Hidden  below.

If I listen carefully I hear their shrill cries

Beyond the bridge  

What happened in this barn I may never ponder.

But I'll cling on to the neon signs that linger.

 Posted for One Stop Poetry: Sunday

photo by:Sean McCormick you can see more of his work at 
One Stop Poetry