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Monday, February 02, 2009

Empty House

I am an empty house.
No metaphor, no simile
of me, I am just empty.

A hollow house
with no family to fill me.

The windows are bare virgins.
Husks of their former selves,
a mockery without curtains.
Their framebones rattle
by gust-frequent winds.

Is this what broke us?
The torrent blow
of gusts, cheek to cheek.
Is this what defeated us?
Do not speak, just shake and rock.
Like the windows.

They've neglected the days.
Now they're vacant,
and full of wondering.

Eyes glassed over and lost
wondering about abstract landscapes
never understood: the night's descent
into white day, a quicksand of belly,
hip pockets and satin sheets
we clung to like rabid beasts.

But now the house is empty.
The clocks are still. Flowers
rot in their holders
like twisted lovers.

Only a few belongings remain,
a world of threadbare wings
each longing to be made whole again:

an urn stuffed full
of pomegranate seeds for luck,
and three pictures of you, only like
a box of chocolates but with
each centre mercilessly bitten out.

Their memories rest about
immovable, frozen hands
reaching out to grasp
the lonely, in this
empty house of me.

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