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Milk curdled, left in a chipped saucer,
kicked out of the way,
lost in a corner,
on the dirty floor

extinguished wick,
Yellow colored driblets,
frozen in place,
lost a race to the peeling paint,
curling off the walls

shadows recede and fade,
into the awakening light
so graceful and feminine,
pouncing through accumulated dust,
discarded like some afterbirth,
no longer quite justified

Feel the perpetual sting,
swarming bees serenading rose bushes,
so elegant and graceful,
up against the faded trellis,
supporting crumbling walls
such an antiquated homestead,
yet, feels good to be home...

Mathiasthom
written 3/27/08