This is the house where I lay my morose mind
These windows crack open like a splintered pomegranate
Faces build up like stacks of opposite cards
A wind blows from the Northern skies:
Do you even feel?
I nudge, and try to open the blurry windows—
Wiping the fog-like clouds, whispering on its deaf ears:
Do you even feel?
This is the house where I lay my vulgarian spirit
Fingers wither like the Autumnal leaves
And now I have nothing to write these coarse letters
Or face the music of the dawn
A wind blows from the Southern skies:
Do you even feel?
I nudge, and try to close the Hellenic holes—
Poking it, smearing it, choking it—
Nothing happens,
And the whole world trembles instantly.
This is the house where I lay my wrecked heart
Like the ships in Atlanta, Oreos, and Atlantis;
Sometimes I try to stir what’s not stirred
And then boom!
A crippling voice inherits my cacophonous body
Treating me with something else
A whisper
A voice
Belonging to someone else,
I close my eyes.
And the house is gone.
