Nowhere to call a home
Never a place to call shelter
Just a temporary sanctuary
Gradually being washed away
By the advent of time
And relationships
On the side of crossroads,
You'd miss it if you weren't looking

Plants break free of its walls,
Tearing it into pieces,
Reducing it to ruins
That is where my love used to be
Where it used to exist
The bottom cellar is where my heart
Used to beat, scream out it's
Intentions for the world to hear
Where I once knew that love existed

Now, those same walls have fallen
Ruined, the stones are chipped
Holes mar the surface
And if you ever step inside,
You'd see a great big emptiness
A muskiness in the air
Speaking about what used to be
Cobwebs line the ceilings
The floors, unsteady and weak

A little bit of sunlight filters through
Providing enough light to make out figures
A sadness sets in, a weariness
Felt through your bones
Dampness causes the wood to decay
A drop falling every now and then
Startling with its loudness,
Makes a puddle on the floor
That steadily trickles down
To what lies below

A despondent house, called haunted
By people passing, who happen to see it.
No one goes in, no one steps in
It remains abandoned, cutting an
Intimidating, haunting figure where it
Stands unnoticed, beside the crossroads
Unmentionable, unnoticeable
If you didn't know it was there,
Your eyes would pass it by

I used to carry two buckets
It was easy, each swing weightless
I filled them with thoughts of the day and put them on the shelf at night
People began to fill them with their favorite things
At first I liked the kick knacks

Bibles, shards of scrapping paper, handicap stickers, elephants and stars, kids menus, empty party bottles, movie reels and a wadded up half finished confession on the back of a napkin.
The weight began to grow

I enjoyed it, the build of muscle, the struggle of hard work. I could feel the sweat on the sides of my forehead and I was proud. These buckets were a sign of success
they were my trophies
and I polished them every night

the sweat began to pour
into my buckets
I hated the sloppy stains left behind, legs bored with the gain
no longer willing to put in the time
my buckets. my little spits of treasure
I wanted to tip them over the bridge like a butcher chucks his slimed waste into the dump

I let things go

Into the river. let the buckets settle into the slush at the bottom of a cool drink.
If I want to hold something, I'll use my hands
and if over my palm all things drop- I'll know I'm only human