I suppose I like to imagine my life
As an abandoned room
In an empty building somewhere,
Riddled with secrets.
And all the wonders I have seen
Paint every inch of the crumbling walls –
The ceilings caving in
To admit me a view of the stars.
And everyone I love is connected
And assembled together
To create the floorboards
That creak, each one uniquely,
As the wood contracts between the shade
And the sun.
And my poetry is formed from the dust,
Falling day by day between the cracks of those floorboards
And my conscience.
The dust collects in the basement below
And shrouds all my secrets,
Forming words and rhymes to portray them better
Than they can portray themselves.