Beached House

I am this creaky house on the beach.Weathered and ready to be swept out to sea — These four walls don’t hold up a home — There’s no heart here.

This is a crash spot. A junkie's stop and go. A palace for ghosts and dead space. A hollow requiem, shallow upon the sand.

Echoes — the siren song of the tide's soft tricks, tickling my wooden design. Tingling as I dissolve, molt, swell, rust at the hinges and bolts. Sweltering — under-kept.

A gentle facade keeping those unaware of its demise at a friendly distance. They will feel an urge to go in, but they will remain discouraged. They can tell that this place isn’t for them. They are smarter than the sirens, or maybe crueler is the right word. Whatever the reason. I applaud them. I agree with them — This isn’t a place for anybody.

I am the salt licked shores —

Stained pale-lit like the moon.

The waves crash here —

The coral distant, but near.

You can taste the breeze serrate your skin. It feels like a mouth full of salted mirrors — This is the home you are accustomed to, this is

The albatross has landed upon my tomb. Sins clutches in talons. Coughing by the foul catch — dying by sense of pride and smell; weakening of heart.

Lay it amongst the rest of me — this debris. A crumbling foundation.

A salty dog has found many bones underneath; the skeletons I’ve hidden from the battles fought here, where I stand.