My heart is an old house, in that another forlorn ruins

the centre road is always pitch black, forgotten words

locked in an enchanted flute sheet, crescent moon rolls

and tolls in golden bars, pond valley grimaced with red—

Someday, my entangled mess will bow perhaps

in the beginning of vague laughter, where stories are

never told—but— death, darting in a cold embrace.

It's perhaps another sixteen hours,

I was told— "Home is gonna be changed,"

And I only nod, perplexed and troubled, past my window—

many things are locked away in the purple boxes and stars,

never to be opened or turned,

that day— I could only catch the small light

shining bright, tiny pages of my life: so little is written.

How many times have I sat here?

How many times will I sit here again?

And hear the pressure of a long wind, coming from

where I have no clue, the future resembles a cloudy dream—

faint voices, smiles, clamped in the corner, ghosts of life

coming to grit, perhaps someday we'll be the beginners guide—

My heart will be an old house, in those forlorn ruins.

— 1st August, 2023