Vacant Hours

I live in a tattered castle,
Home of my mind’s construct.
The walls show age beyond their years,
And slowly chip away from abuse,
Self-inflicted and otherwise.

I travel these empty halls,
With the echo of my footsteps.
Awaiting the arrival of any lost travelers,
Whom I can douse affection upon,
And offer lodging for the night.

I dine with my delusions,
They keep me sedated…safe.
We discuss events of the week,
And, at length, wax nostalgic,
Reminisce of better times.

I sleep in solitude’s grasp,
Settled into warm accommodations,
At odds with the bitter cold of the day.
In the morning I will wake,
The process begins anew...