This House

A poem of an end and a beginning.

This poem started out as being about recovery but ended up being about death, transformation and salvation.

This House
Dark, shutters closed long ago, wood rotting and jagged, nails bent and rusty
Waiting to snag the reckless
The smell of despair and disrepair
Air as still as a mausoleum
Furniture crouching silently – waiting patiently for yesterday
Pale images a reminder of that which once was
Color faded, movement stilled, light dimmed, love lost
Sitting silently in the darkness, longing for escape       
Memories stale, recall slowly scrubbed away by the ages 
Time indistinguishable in the preternatural fog that filters through careless cracks 
Sunken eyes shift towards a mirror, gazing into eternity
A crack appears in a corner and a razor of light splits the blackness, it’s form revealed by dust
Outstretched hand tracing the beam to its source, touching the crack
The facade dissolves
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
Fire scours away all that has gone wrong 
Flames recede, taking all secrets with them  
The house is no more
I am Free
Yesterday has returned
I begin to walk