Longing,
lofty obsession;
a seductive trap—
the slow,
burning
metamorphosis
into discontent.
Victim of imagination,
in a house-
not my home,
a wistful reality
in nonexistent time.
One pale brick
at a time,
the fireplace is built;
embers glow in disillusion.
Old floors
stained an undecided hue;
ebony,
or withered oak?
Worn, loved leather seat
embodies its function—
an imprint of memories
never made.
The house remains empty,
unoccupied, vacant.
No tenants allowed.
My ghosts wander—
longing for a place
to settle:
to call their own.
That innocent lie
wraps me in a blanket;
lulls me to lay still,
to lust
for the humble world
in my dreaming eye.
Fiction’s Grasp
Thank you to my dear friend and mentor, Liz, for supporting and encouraging my writing; also thank you so much for making a travel mug with my new logo. You know I love coffee and writing, so this was such a thoughtful Christmas gift!
Comentarios