Clouds intruded as they hid in the faded brown paper ceilings.
The clouds were their own with their own stories and ironies on how they were spewed into any given corner.
Moisture in their tales, expansion is in their future.
Tails wag, in the form of what once was called the exit sign of drag.
Intrusions will not go without illumination,
and the sunset proved them there.
Golden to brown, the nap-sack confession that someone ill-advised had recommended.
Puffs of what belonged to some old feeling of uneasy traveled across to cause other uneasiness.
No one used the stairs that evening.
