In A Sad House

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem.

Submitted: January 21, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 21, 2013



In a sad house,
teetering on a rocking chair in a room
with an old trap hosting a dead mouse.
Loneliness could never be anymore precise.
In a sad house I look out a dirty window.
Dead flowers tilted, wilted; they do not bloom.
With no wife to tend the gardens,
no Eve to mimic Eden,
I am a deserted Adam standing loveless in sand dunes.
Gone is the happy home.
In a sad house I watch the world go by.
In a sad house I've seen everyone I love die.

Hallways are quiet.
There's no children running,
no children laughing, playing.
Hallways are silent.
In a sad house all echoes fail
when innocence sinks and sets sail.
Family life buried in the backyard.
Every day a year,
family reunions are held in a graveyard.
Three tombstones.
What other reasons would I need
to beg skin to unsheathe bones?
Archaeology in a sad house.
Carefully I unearth the past
to get a better understanding of what is missed.
Paradisiacal memories clear a path.
Dragging myself down this broken trail of one man's sadness,
I crawl almost effortlessly inside the gaping mouth of madness.
In a sad house this is a normal thing.
In a sad house it's about timing
if you want to be devoured by insanity properly,
and I'm right on cue.

Not a husband.
Not a father.
In a sad house I am nothing.
I am not even a man.
Love is powerful,
but murder gets the kill.
Death is king,
and under its rule I've lost everything.
I was their hero and I let them down.
In a sad house I polish Death's crown.
Because regret is regrettable,
a cycle that gives etcetera full meaning,
I can't forgive myself and move on.
Not when catastrophe can't be undone.
I just can't.

In a sad house,
in the darkest room where maggots ingest a dead mouse,
I will teeter on this rocking chair
until they're squirming through my flesh,
because that is exactly how failed heroes should die.
Every fucking last one of them.


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