Wandering amassed through these dark corridors
Stenches of time plastered to walls cracked wood floors
Inside the mansion multiplid pass the hill
Upon the ocean a salt drifts from the wind to the sill
The paint chips no different than the sand
A demand of resistance or renaissance touch is at hand
Cool dead expands upon the door knobs that rust
In trust and estate the deed turns to dust
The light in the attic once illumined of grace
In the basement below creeps small life still at stake
A drenched molding picture slants what is shown
The major depression of wrath time has bestowed
A breeze creeps through these halls floating on sweet winter's kiss
Cold as frozen tundra
Hardened
Uncalled
Seldom missed
A composure and tenure unbiased from all
The graveyard by the house crafted by pleasant withdrawal
A time of laughter gone
Resting on a grave sight
A flower does sit
Alone in the night.
Copyright, 2010, Christopher Baird--all rights reserved.
Contact me for reprint/posting permission.
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