Standen

the papers of a former general 
sit static on the desk, once his workplace,
scratched in ink, wounded words 
now turned narrative, fade
the oil lamp flickers, absent of breeze
a scent, musk mixed with lemon grass, 
conjures as I pass his door, 
the ticking of clocks, the creaking floor
no longer are we alone
no longer are we the same as you,

on these walls a portrait moans,
we are the paintings brushstrokes 
each stitch 
embroidered, 
entwined 
embeds my family blood line 
my father the banker, 
my mother the writer,
my sister the actress, 
each a victim of a modernist theft 
aristocracy’s final breath 
here stands the house
where happiness left,

we are not always well
we are not always colorful 
we are not always pretty 
we are not always alone