The House

The is hearth where the thinker would sit and have fits of the mind when he saw nature cravenly misbehaving.
And this is the glass you would raise every night to the cracks in the road to heaven's paving.
This is the roof on whose sickened red tiles there would bloom eyes when the stars started caving.
And this is the sickle on who's blade there would trickle sweet fluids that the druids were saving.

This is the lamp that would flicker with bugs as you stared at the filament for days that would go on unending.
And this is the glue that had worn off the stamps you were reusing on letters that never quite got to the sending.
And this is the clapper of the bell that would signal the end of the hell in that war you would lose many friends in.
And this is the note you would leave to yourself to intercept on the other side, afterlife-pending.

This is the hammer which they used in the auction when they sold off the suit that you died in.
And this is the book where they found gnostic scripture which when uttered would usher the tide in.
This is the box that contained the brown locks of the brother who's memory you'd hide in.
And this is the candle in who's smoke you'd see visions, the meaning of which you would stay up all weekend deciding.

This is the pine frame in which hangs the door that for all your long years stayed unopened.
And this is the shame that you burned in the mirror when it didn't play the game and give you the answers for which you were hoping.
This is the wall that would palpitate and snigger and wheeze at the ludicrous ways you would find yourself coping.
And this is the step where you'd sit with the feather from the swan on who's back you would one warm night dream of eloping.

This is the bath where you'd empty your veins of all blood and whatever corrosive new drug you were using.
And this is the nib of the pen whose shrill tip you dug deep to scratch out the un-knowable last words of your choosing.
This is the actor who's journeyman portrayal of your harrowing last hours, was as far it goes quite amusing.
And this is the song that for right or for wrong was commissioned by your son who's commitment in life you were losing.

And this is the sentence that offered repentance as the tall veil of tears washed away when your boy got the news in – “I love you, father, and as much as I'd rather you were here, I like you more now you're gone, signed in the quill of a swan, oh father, now life can go on.”