An Old House(Poem)

Charlie and I
decided to tour one old house
in Marshall street.
As the rusted gates were opened,
we could sense —
the fallen red bricks,
haunted pipes,
gated memories,
slyly windows,
pencil drawings,
renaissance paintings,
treacherous chimneys,
shivering winds,
some ghosts on soul-sucking duty,
cursed tales and spooky doors,
the lime structures and Karst topography,
exhaust fans of remorse,
the concrete revealing its iron cleavage,
unclaimed solitude,
pigeon eggs,
un-tuned radios,
enchanted crockery,
dusty mirrors,
lizards of the late Carboniferous period,
Deja Vu,
spirits playing with spider webs,
fallen childhoods and forgotten friendships,
yeah, also the termites feeding on woody structures.

—Drunken Monk.


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