Homeless
The house is not a home that lies bereft
of care or love when love and care have left.
Best lock the door, but leave the key behind
for others less bereft of heart to find.
Bright echoes fade into the toneless drone
of self-perpetuation. No-one's home,
that's clear, though lights shine hopefully behind
dull windows curtained carelessly by time.
This house is empty, long unoccupied,
not cleaned nor taken care of, and inside
lie artifacts left crumbling and unclaimed
by blameless occupants long gone, yet named
devotedly in dust which carpets them
protectively, a love that need condemns.
How, then, to ascertain time's rightful dues
to what today may keep or daily lose?
Dull memory thuds hopelessly against
the ever-lessening chains of future tense
near frayed now. Daylight, real light, through a door,
come burst asunder this forever more,
spark flames of now, light fires of the soon,
set well ablaze the pyres built high, consume
the very life of death and leave a way
that leads not to the past but to today.
The house is not a home that lies bereft
of care or love when love and care have left.
Best lock the door, but leave the key behind
for others less bereft of heart to find.
