I'm listening to the house ,
the popping of the joists ,
the groans from years of delapidation . The arguing
with local foundations .
Age has its benefits in the forms of doors as they no longer stay moored to the walls but swing in indecision like the fools who stand in perpetual obsolesence .
Where then do my thoughts propel my rudderless oblivion ?
My angst , the thumb in many dikes , leaves me as powerless before the mass of my desperation .
How dare the Ghosts of daylight leave me marooned in the shadow of shadows .
I am confused and challenged by the hidden agendas and secret subpoenas of an alien race of thought .
And were I capable of burying the haunting images , would they not
sprout from my seeds of discontent and flourish
yet greater than before ?
. . . evidently so .