The Old Broken House
Her home with the fractured skull and bones
to the eccentric weather.
There are wounds
in its grey skin.
Yet she prefers her broken shelter
to the roadside forebodings.
She shuts her fragile door on the night
and mind-locks it
before curling up in serenity.
Flowers fall through the chinks
in her wall
from the streetlight.
Flakes of the sunshine
wake her up
from the divinity coated dreams.
Fantasy overlaps her wizened sense.
Her son comes
to take all the precious things
under the pretense of protection.
Since the soul treasures everything,
loss is just a worldly seeming.
First published in The Literary Hatchet