Grandma’s house: A family’s demise
The walls have caved
in . There’s no hope or love within.
Only past hate, envy,
and deception bear in
These walls
And ugly, dark ,
vacuous halls
that lead to nowhere
There’s no
Pain relieved or wondrous
reprieve.
Only dreams denied and inevitably deceived
Can you see?
Invisible fingerprints of our loved ones who believed
That we would prevail
at prosperity but the wandering demons
Reveal that we have
failed .
Here, the air is filled
with an acrid stench of lies, guilt, and family deceit
And astray, “holy” souls who fell victim to defeat.
Disappointment
levitates in the falling roof that bleeds
a dying hope that encompasses your lungs and makes it impossible to breathe.
In every, almost
inconspicuous corner is proudly
decorated with mold
The wooden closed doors withhold an enraged silent truth
dying to be told
If you sit still and
listen Grandma’s remote prayer quietly echoes
“Hold on to my, chil’n,
Lord, don’t let’em go.”
A trembling, cruel,
cold
Is held captive in the
once beauty-filled home, that now hurt resides and complacently unfolds.
A Potent, flailing,
unattainable hope makes you choke
You better Hold your
breath, this frigid place is contaminated
With unforeseen
calamity and Stolen promises unabated.
We, the children, of a
faithful, praying Mother’s dream
To cultivate a virtuous family that dwell in love and peace
Have deceptively
contemplated to let adversity be free.
In us.
Now, in her home, these ominous, hate-filled dying floors roar
Of ill-will, strife and blood-related war
And these, vengefully
hungry insects soar
While the termites
bite
Away away away at this
dwelling until it disappears.
And the vintage,
cracked, shattered, windows smear
The lonely ghosts mockingly
sneer
You better not
cry; It is in here that sorrow and broken hearts are revered.
If you look
closely, the cracking tiles reveal
Grandma’s disappointed tears
In us.
Through the small
cracks in the weak ceiling the pain is wrathfully
gained.
The worn furniture
is painted with deceptive, permanent stains
If you walk the rooms
the gruesome truth remains
Stolen pictures of faded
memories of the horrid past, that will never be redeemed
Here, in this
sorrow-filled house, Love lived then impetuously
committed suicide
On the very day that
Grandma died.
But listen close, you
hear her voice
‘'Love each other,
chil’in things’ll get better by & by.”
