Quatrain: "Body of Home"
Head in the attic
With all the forgotten artists
Heart as dark as the septic
Both clouded in dusts
Cold breath from the vent
Nipping the skins of dwellers
Lungs wheeze the furnace scent
Grunting amongst all the spiders
Eyes caught against the window
Reflecting sights from the darkness out
Consciousness crackles a fireplace tempo
Flames dwindle, weeping cinders of doubt
Frosty bones ache as a withering floorboard
Groaning in distress at each padded toe's head
Pipes spew in the night; like veins all gored
Lesions carve the siding in lacing cracks of red
Paint chips stolen away at midnight's frore bite
The pigment splinters flutter in motions of wounded fireflies
Exposed blemishes glow under the lucidity of cratered light
Where the stony steps crumble from the veranda that they lie
Your body was once a home of affection so fervent
Clear head, heart light, lungs clean, gleaming skin
Though, the weather always changes with a torrent needn't
Now you could use some fixing, but you won't let me in
YOU ARE READING
Noisy World (ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ)
PoetryI've never claimed to be a poet; I've only ever claimed that I'd try.
