The broken house


I lie awake like a nocturnal bird
The changing seasons adorn my facade;
And I don’t know what it means to be colourless, anymore.
Voices echo from my nooks and crevices
And I show no incitement lest they be frightened and abandon me.

I feel casted out in the wilderness
Of oblivion;
Bathing in the early sunrises and late sunsets.

My feet have grown frail and wobbly;
I feel like a sailing ship that has long since lost its shore.

The walls of my garrets
Have been smothered by dust
And my lungs are caked with old grime.

The plasters in my rooms have peeled off;
I am skinned like an absconding reptile:
Only, it’s done to grow another anew;
But I shred my weaknesses that I have ever since kept bottled up.

If you find yourself seeking
A fine dwelling, a comrade in your old age,
A place that pronounces serenity
Come, abide in the niches of my territory;
While you sip your coffee on the porch
I will gratefully cherish the caress of your feet…

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© Varina Berryl Rasquinha,, 2015.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Varina Berryl Rasquinha and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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