Sunday, December 26, 2010

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. . .
expression and form. . .
a creature gray and low,
along with the drafts,
finding a nest
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. . .


Cimetiere DuPere Lachaise


Moineau En France said...

beautiful. it certainly does feel that way at this house too. will we ever get out from under this debris (or these memories)? love. xoxoxoxo

Wolfsong said...

Thanks Laura, I am working on it. Trying very hard to toss and purge and get rid of stuff . . . What ever happened to my fantasy about being a minimalist . . ? Perhaps the only way out from under the burden of "stuff" is death . . . xoxoxo

Teplova Daria said...

I want that for my house! )))

Moineau En France said...

ain't it the truth?! (word verif: "shiste" lol!)