by Gideon Burton
Moreover, we found moonlight caught in rafters
And tangled helpless in the swirling dust.
The air was old, and yet it smelled of laughter,
Too thin to be distinguished from the must
Of silent decades, stones inside of stones,
Preserving echoes of the absent coals
That warmed the grimmest night of fear and bones.
The wreckage creaks, the breezes try each hole,
And winter weaves its fabric in the night
Of weakened spaces and forgotten chimes.
Walk quietly, try not to stir the spite
That time has gestured with its sluggish mimes.
The house will have its reasons and its wood,
A frame devoid of laughter's noisy good.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - dbnunley