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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/463168-House-of-Solitude
by Joy
Rated: E · Poetry · Writing · #463168
house internalized
A crooked chimney for its straight smoke
in the willful style of a mellow mortal,
singing a siren's song with promises;
some solar panels to capture the light,
casting faint shadows on a desolate lawn:
a tinted cottage, frail, in earthly sight.

I sit in its shade and make fun of the sun
until clouds cover it out of mercy.

Its bay windows keep people at bay,
threatening with the confines of a cage
and the clatter of shutters.

For the price paid for self-induced exile,
this house stays stranded by design,
imagination's graffiti on clapboard sides,
creaky floorboards echoing the hours
given foolishly away.

Cowering in cobwebbed corners, a piece of me
through a madness of sorts,
in blank papers astray
scrubbing my insides for dreams, poetry,
or for slippery consolation.

At the end of a spiral staircase, a closed vault:
my literary atelier, my space,
gifts of poetry and time
to be crumbled and thrown into trash
after I'm gone,
and ruffling hard stone fa├žade
of my inner rooms,
thoughts of futility.

Artless arms embracing lofty prayers,
an open book cuddled in my lap,
I nestle in my no-man's land.

Wherever I dwell, I'm alone.

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