The bones of this house are old
They are my grandmother, in her eighties, almost a full life
For 100 is full and anything beyond, an immortal.
.

The bones of this house are old
Every wall has been through time's youth
Has seen through lie's truth
And that's why the paint peels in layers
White seen like liver spots on my grandpa's forehead.
.

The bones of this house are old
The tubelight hangs in frail fixtures
Much like the operated knees my grandma hobbles on
The black soot of burnt bulbs leaves a shadow
On faded wall paint
I notice it, lying down in my mother's silhouette a lazy afternoon.
.

The bones of this house are old
The orange of the outer wall is now almost a ripe peach
My father thinks of a new colour to coat as he dyes his hair in the balcony
I suggest black, like last time and he almost hears me
But my brother's game has more reach.
.

The bones of this house are old
Invisible demons have made lodgings, it's been an acceptable time
So complicated words for diseases are interchangeable
Forgive my grandma, her Alzheimer's makes her forget
My aunt's schizophrenia
But we have no excuse for being blind
To my aunt, though she is loud;
Except shame.
.

The bones of this house are old
They have borne children, cement flesh and a level above the ground
For me and my brother,
Young court the young
What is ancient is beneath, though it bears us
We wish it buried.
.

The bones of this house are old
The face of this house is tired
But my father, he sits on the terrace and looks at a house being built across the lane
And says,
Ah! What an empty house
It must be waiting to be old and tired
And lived in.
When I look at his eyes, I say
The bones of your house, they're gold.