My birthright is a rickety old spire
Whose bones echo with the vertebrae of a gallowed man
shattered & mended watercolor glass
to know it now would be terror – raw & unfiltered
but i can still remember sweeping young palms,
out-of-tune, an ancient piano
hazy fluorescence casting queer shadows
out the window and down the steps
around and around and around
considering the past is my childhood,
i wonder, then, if i\'d seen monsters instead of mystery in the creeping corridors
twin-tails of magic and witchery,
would my fingers know its path in the dark?
would my eyes strain to see –
the last glimmer of light, in my glass-curb’d,
worn down old home
long gone & lost to time