A house is a graveyard of stories.
The walls are lined with cursive text etched onto supple skin.
Laughs echo back through the hallway of mirrors,
As bells chime for the creek in the floorboards.
Blood engulfs the sewers and fires are sprinkled with souls.
This home is doused with alcohol and lined with candlesticks,
An eternal light in the presence of eternal damnation.
The attics slosh with the sound of plasma
And smiles are sewn into every doll.
Occupants of sinners and self-proclaimed saints.
Charms do not protect their tenants from themselves.
As the blue flame burns the slowest,
It is embroidered with Lithium shavings.
A calm exterior for a stew of pomegranate ecstasy.
Red apples mature sour as they cross the lining.
The tapestry of existence threaded with lead rosaries.
Its pillars, assembled with the steps traveled in the wrong direction.
The ceiling molded with kisses to ex-lovers.
And you, the real estate agent, brag, "This house has good bones."
YOU ARE READING
An Ode to Muses to Kalliope
PoetryThis poetry collection explores regret, isolation, philosophy, with a sprinkling of guilt. Historical references are encouraged! If you're just going through the motions of life, whether it be blissful or difficult, these poems are great companions...
