A Dream

Where once these homes were boarded and padded; begging for mercy from mysteries remaining to be seen

These windows in the winter, at the center of their lofts, give way to several realities

Some with blinds drawn and others caught in the binding, precarious and unsuspecting of the admirer

Coveting the object of sofas worn and printed throws and disheveled books all exactly where they belong;

Screens covered with content, facing away and into the room where no one seems to reside

Who is more the ghost; the one who flips the switches or the one who peers inside?

This night, so bloody and bleak, stains the glass with smears of residue as an artist whose palm grazes the page with charcoal all over their hands,

The patio torches outside neighboring manors shy at these homes and their coffee table lamps.

Enclosed, discreet, and huddled towards one another - these homes serve a purpose greater than shelter

Where once these homes, gathered and meek, elucidate a need, and legacies of pursuit, and the sweet release to dream

All contained within the wrinkled pages and peeling spines of books neither the flaneur nor the tenant will ever read.