old things

My life is built of this and that . . .
desperate pleasures. . .
old sorrows
a glance at a dream
flashing by . .
the dawn and the dusk
revolving like a wheel
of light . . . crushing me
beneath the weight of time . . .

I  built my house,
piece by piece,
each molecule
of dust connecting
with its kind. . .
cohesion,
expression and form. . .
a creature gray and low,
drifting
along with the drafts,
finding a nest
beneath
in the darkness

bits and pieces, old notes and letters
left unread,
cracked and yellowed books . . .
faded pictures, and receipts of long
forgotten pleasures . . .
boxes of beads,
buttons, and knotted threads,
a moldy ribbon wraps around the lot . .

age old things
once desired and pursued
owned and then forsaken,
obliterated by inconstant
determination. . .

softly my house
scatters itself around me
adding to the detritus of my life. . .

devolving out of my beating heart a
blood so dark it flows unnoticed through the night,
the house becoming my flesh,
creaking and moaning. . .
flesh adhering to slumping walls. . .

the things that were owned
now own the thing
that once owned. . .

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Cimetiere DuPere Lachaise