Wednesday, April 18, 2012

An old old poem

(i found it the other day. Evidently i had been reading the real Emily again...
Well, how do you learn, right?)

Into a House of Secrets born,
where the laboured beams all mourn
and walled-up closets whisper to
the bones beneath the floor --

Into an Edifice of Silence,
built up by years of lies,
its proud whitepainted outsides
breathing wooden sighs --

(The breathing of ancestral Ghosts,
whose secrets, still untold
Fog up the warped glass window-panes
To leave them dim and cold) --

I build my own Storey on
the secrets of the Past,
Seal all the cracks and seams,
lock the doors up fast

on my inheritance. When I rest
in my last, best bed --
And I leave this place,
the House will stand,
its keys dissolving with my voice.

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