Poem: Home & Hell

The walls become monument
to lost ideas,
aging wood,
the wrong kind of men
and weathered glass

Blankets of lies
make sleepy eyes
closing behind the comfort of never leaving one place
decrepit lord & master, of this crumbling space,
with leather sofas torn;
our ruin’s still our own.

You take the shorn and torn
to a higher rent
to outrun the decay
with a fresh coat of paint,

to a new place of mine
full of refined things
all degenerate pleasures
fit for delinquent kings.

Till it gathers dust again
and ashes remaining remind
of how brightly I burnt
before my light went out,
of how many things I fought to fix
before I left my house.