Poems

Life goes on but I keep the curtain drawn

The passerby laughs just beyond the lawn.

A sound of life floats between the panes,

I walk deeper in the long room, away from the song.

Through the curtain I see the rain refract in.

The kaleidoscope imposes itself for a second displaying.

A grimace plays across my face as it crashes,

Vibrant beauty shattered to grey as the room begins drinking.

I turn my gaze to the room; dark grey, and black envelope the gloom.

The windowpanes cracked, worn; the furniture, old, dusty; I sit enclosed tomb.

My home, my flesh and bone.

Built like a mausoleum of wood and stone.

Decaying from decades old use,

The candles in the windows dim as the wicks remains alone.

Gently moans released from the old timber’s as if crones,

The gale glides through unseen flipping the pages of tomes.

She is gentle to my abode but bitter toward me,

She: the old friend of chambers and halls; she: my pain, nuisance, the voice of a disconnected phone.

I move to the bedchamber, movements: slow to remember.

Heavy I fall to the mattress, it is late November.

Heaving my tired feet to their position,

I lay my head on the cushion and await December.