This old house has seen it all before. The rummaging of angst…The backdoor horrors…
Three crows circling the unkempt gardens, pecking orders for the leftovers.
Descending much like beggars to pennies upon the floor.
This old house…closed for repairs…missing steps in the stairs.
Leaking self depreciating humor…encased in toxic rumor.
This old house…if only you had known sooner.
A foundation built on Christ.
Dining in prayer with the Father and a roll of the dice.
I shall tell you now.
I shall tell you now…
what all these years…
you have missed.
“Nail and frail and lying low. A legacy cast no shadow. For it must have not just shape and form, but contempt for danger…or, it only lay shallow.”
“Occasionally, we have to take care of those who once…took care of us. Often leaving, the participants, stuck between wonder-lust and antiquated mistrust.”
I look and lock down these stairs to the catacombs.
I understand as a stumble, there will never be freedom.
The intertwined pine and oak…lamented before me alludes to a place ‘never to be.’
Hatred and swinging leather belts.
Love mixed with skin pelts.
I write shortly of incidents others have felt.
Thus, I donate my life to disrepair.
To tiled and titled adults without a care.
Tell me now,
how polyester made life light?
Why the campfire of want…became hell?
The turn off route 93 had been slight
This is what I remember of the night.
There had been no threadbare child’s strap to encase my dreams.
There had been no traveling movie…to allow normal to be sane.
I remember those star crusted memories as though, I could achieve, I could achieve, I could achieve.
After coming from nap time with Santa and no delivered good to be had.
Remember, remember, the polka dot, the low fashion, the plaid.
Adorable in strawberry blonde.
Cute with a nose like a knob.
These days I do not allow myself to be host.
Santa, with perception, can now be a ghost.
My Father used to say, peace be with you…
But it never was.
Holding a stark bare cross above the bedroom door…
I had been taught ‘this is love.’
Father would shake my hand until life caught hold
Eventually, in obsession, he became less bold.
My Father had sent me to deviant schools.
I had been taught of prejudice, good books, how to look for fools.