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
No comments:
Post a Comment