This House

A poem of an end and a beginning.

As you may have guessed, I sometimes write poetry. I only recently took it up. I never thought I would enjoy this sort of thing so much but I do.

This House
By Linda Jordan

This House; forgotten

Dark, shutters nailed tight long ago, wood rotting and jagged, nails bent and rusty;

Waiting to strike the reckless

The smell of despair and disrepair; air as still as a mausoleum

Furniture crouching silently. waiting patiently for yesterday

All the time in the world

Pale images a reminder of that which once was

Color faded, movement stilled, light dimmed, love lost

Sitting silently in the darkness, I long for escape        

Memories stale; recall slowly scrubbed away by the ages 

Time indistinguishable in the preternatural fog that filters through careless cracks 

I turn and look into a mirror, eyes sunken, having lost their purpose. No witness to beauty in so long     

As my focus fades I see into eternity.  A needle of light punctures the blackness, illuminating the path to redemption, revealed by dust, outlined by darkness

Hand outstretched, eyes straining, tracing the beam to its source, pushing against old lies

I touch and the ancient facade suddenly gives way

Brilliant mirror shattering, a deluge of fire spills in

Chairs, tables, furnishings circling madly, vortex violently devouring all

Liquid incandescence lovingly embracing every door, every rafter, every chair as it  washes the transgressions from my soul   

My life plays out before me as the fire scours away all that has gone wrong 

Consumed by the flames, I begin to feel lighter as I separate from the conflagration as it recedes back into the earth taking all that was  

The house is no more

I am Free

Yesterday has returned

I begin to walk



Author: ldinlove

I am a 55 year old woman with one husband and one child living on raw land we bought in eastern Washington state. I am not normal. I am eccentric. Our whole family is, for that matter.

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