The Bleak House

The toys I used to love,
The loves I have outgrown,
The hungry dogs of hopes,
Which have devoured
One another,
Voids, interspersed with holes,
Mountains of wind and smoke,
Oceans, painted on desert sands
By jinns and ghosts –
My memories;
At my house at the edge of the world,
With cracked windows and doors agape
I’ll look away as I lock away
Everything I have
Ever known;
I will call the bleak house my home,
Sit and sit on the steps outside,
Staring vacantly out at things
Without knowing their names
Or mine,
My memories

4 thoughts on “The Bleak House

    1. Thank you for reading, as always!
      Don’t know why I suddenly wrote about memory, to be honest. Perhaps, I worry about losing mine.
      Memories explain, justify, connect; they make a life into a story. How terrible it must be to have had a story – good, bad, or ugly – and not to know what it was.

    1. Absolutely! They were the only ones; they were ‘forever’.
      In this sense, time is like space, like distance: the farther away one moves from a feeling/event/object, the smaller it appears. Although, one might remember how important or even all-consuming something was in its moment, it won’t be forgotten how small time and distance made it look, when the moment was gone.

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