Home

Old places.

Walls coloured custard 

with faded silk stripes,

edges eaten into threads 

by starving insects.

Crying from dank,

rot-punctured ceilings,

the deafening drips 

of porous pipes.

Billowing drapes 

of drowsy moth villages,

surrounded by hollowed

ancestral shells.

Splintered window shards

glimmering throughout,

like an ageless symphony 

of shattered glass.

There is much life 

in fleshy bubbling fungus,

a whole new universe 

of slippery blackness.

Dizzying spirals 

of floating dust dots,

appearing to linger 

in defiance of time.

Stillness screams 

from a rusted hinge,

come in.

Reviews

[Kelly Scheppers]

...what a stirring read this was...is!! I love it! Your descriptive nature takes on a whole new realm of awe. It was my pleasure to be your first to comment!

[Jamie Wilkinson]

Thank you :3