With the emphasis this week on repentance and ashes.
The thought comes to mind, whatever is to live first must die!
The foundation is weak, seeking its own level. rusty pipes leak, joints creak.
Red climbing roses speckled with paint from decades of neglect has had its effects. It is full and ready to blow, and has no capacity to hold more. I am hesitant to go in, but that’s not strange, I left long ago. It was too much for me, I split in two, leaving my child [a part of me] behind. But she followed me in my thoughts. In my dreams I could hear her cry, in my nightmares she would scream. I can bear it no longer. I have to return to claim what is rightfully mine. Reaching in, pulling her out, now with me she shall remain. With such weight, beams crumble into the house. A soft glow of orange erupts into red tongues of fire, consuming the rooms. A gust of wind fans the blaze, until little remains but ashes and dust!
A few childhood remembrances that survived. The sole of a shoe that
This poem ‘The Attic’ is from my book ‘Crushed Violets’ Free on smashwords.com
once held my foot, now covered in soot. My pink dress smoldering in
cinders, a doll looking injured, with charred eyes and lips, her hair on
edge with scars on her head.
A book with singed ruffled edges opened to a nursery rhyme –
“And all fell down.” I am astounded!
Walking through the rubble, I see what trouble the
neglect of this house has caused. Sitting amidst ashes, tears begin
to fall, this house had been my body, the attic my thoughts. I really
didn’t want to leave, I did not know what else to do. If I had stayed, I would have lost my mind. This house was beyond repair, It must be restored. Hinges and doors and windows as well. Who will do this? I must have help!
Donna's Poetry Blog 