This old house,
this old skeleton home
stands as cold as a gravestone.
I once stood warm in the middle,
on soft ground,
on proud carpet
and let the seams out,
unravelling my solid foundation.
My blood didn’t mix well.
It was dry gin,
a steady confrontation
within.
These old thoughts,
these moldy walls,
we’ve sunk deep.
It hasn’t slept since I left.
I chose to be deaf.
I chose this aloneness,
a silent voice sipping on charcoal,
dreaming about a house
that once was a home.
Oh, poor house.
Your empty threshold is tempting but,
now I know,
I have shed you,
and my boiling red blood has
calmed to blue.
I do not miss you.
Elegy's Overture 