His Prize (Pt.3) Poem by Rebecca Springsteen

You might have seen him, I know I've
seen him in the house surrounded by people.
They all look like they're in prisons.
They all have been fake, and faded.
But the eyes that watched me through the window, on the trail.
Her eyes moved to the old façade.
Then I saw him behind the oak.
the wind,
it carried the rotten smell to the back,
of the house. She just
disappeared.
I will not forget that face.
Those mysterious eyes of mysteries.