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
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Author:
highlighter (
Offline) - Published: August 5th, 2025 17:41
- Comment from author about the poem: listen. i might not be allat but i like my house.
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Reta
Offline)
Comments4
A nightmare of a vision. Well written
thank you!
You are most welcome
Welcome to MPS 🙏🏻🕊
thanks man
Enjoyed.
glad to hear it!
this is amazing u should go big or go home
run!
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