A wall patched with lies
keeps the cracks from widening
but mementos fall
books, portraits, medals, and gifts—
gravity claims all relics
curtains shroud the crimes
centuries of stifled screams
glass betrays the hush
even the floorboards confess—
house itself is culpable
clothes, ties, hats, combs, wigs—
the trinkets of faded grace
heaped upon the street
flames burn their false finery—
pretense collapses to ash
palaces demolished
cubes enforce obedience
bankers on the run
food scraps sucked from rubbish binds—
can't stop the way of progress
rebellion outlawed
truth is now rule of edict
ugliness is king
screens implode in blinding flash
we gnaw at our own silence
mother will not come
her arms obliterated
father shamed and named
we crawl with pitiful bleats—
orphans of our own making
Love of Horror
When shadows lengthen, and the moon hangs low,
My heart beats fast, a thrilling, eager glow.
For whispers chilling, and for blood-red gleam,
I find my comfort in a waking dream.
The creaking floorboards, the unearthly wail,
A twisted plot, a terror-filled tale.
No gentle rom-com, no drama's soft embrace,
But monsters lurking, leaving not a trace.
From classic slashers to the psychological fright,
I seek the darkness, bathed in eerie light.
The jump scares jolt, the tension holds me tight,
A delicious shiver in the dead of night.
So bring the ghouls, the vampires, and the fiends,
The ancient curses, and the nightmare scenes.
For in the horror, I find a strange delight,
And slumber soundly, dreaming of the fright.
It clung like ivy, patient, green with hunger —
wrapped itself around every beam,
crept beneath shingles,
rooted in the cellar’s damp breath.
I mistook it for the house itself —
fed it rain, fed it dust,
let it climb my windows
and press its leaves to the glass
until I could no longer see daylight.
But rot loosens quietly.
One morning the vines lay slack,
detached in their own weight,
as if my silence was permission
for them to fall away.
Now the walls breathe unchoked,
bare brick catching sun like raw skin.
Floorboards sing with sudden emptiness.
The air is new — thin, sharp —
a future echoing through cleared rooms.
I walk barefoot through debris,
lighter than I have ever been.
For the first time
I do not flinch at my own footsteps.
There was a window by the mango tree,
facing west, where sunlight spilled like secrets.
That’s where I waited,
where I last saw you—
not waving, just walking.
The curtains danced even when the wind was still.
They remembered your scent
better than I did.
I tried to forget the taste of afternoons
without your laugh in the hallway.
Tried to unhear the sound
of your keys…
not returning.
The mango tree grew quiet,
like it, too, was grieving.
Its fruits fell without reason—
like how people leave
without explanation.
Even now,
I pass that window
and forget to breathe.
This is how I remember it:
Not with fireworks or music,
but with silence,
and the ghost of your footsteps
fading into the floorboards
of a house
that no longer knows your name.
one look full of longing later
in the glow of electric lips
a brush with the unknown...
those were the French films of your youth
your concomitant struggles for love
rambling through the summer heat
gliding in the seaside breeze
down in the deep dead blue
to yearn, to be strangely stranded
among the widowed twin tides
in your sleepy demeanour
still craving your only true friends
white menthol cigarettes and
the angels of the abyss
so follow me in my steps
my unfaithful dreamer
together we’ll disappear
in the groves between the floorboards
he collected all his hopes, dreams and wishes
hid them under floorboards of his room
letting them all rest in darkness
while burning in fire that comes from loss
he collected everything he had in himself
every star that was showed him
and when nights begin to bleed memories
they all rose back like ghosts in the fog
he collected every last bit of innocence
it was no longer the way to live
he must abandon the house he lives in
in order to fight something that isn't his
he told his child version to stay quiet
listen the voice through the cracks
silent all the voices from under floorboards
and rest in peace if he can't run away
A surrealistic silence hangs sluggishly in the air,
as I sit upon your violet clawfoot recliner,
sorting fuchsia dresses into melancholic piles.
An opal ring glistens while the sun drapes over your portrait,
reflecting splashes of kaleidoscopic colors on barren walls.
Dust cakes the creaking floorboards as I place belongings into cardboard boxes.
A faint lullaby gradually infuses this somber undertaking.
The scent of floral perfume permeates—grief crashes over like cresting waves.
The wind whips outside, rattling the bones of a bitter house,
while a heavy heart sinks, drowning in agonized saline.
Tin plates and yellowed photos decorate mahogany tables
antiquated keepsakes, solidified moments in time.
The cerulean dusk creeps in, and the world softens.
Yet grief cloaks nocturnal restfulness,
as your sentience has been reduced to ash.
Merely confined within an engraved urn.
The house of my life
Is rotted and cracked.
The floorboards are warped,
And all of my broken windows
Welcome wind.
But from the rubble,
I’ll piece out a coat,
Made from my very best pieces and shards.
Patches of carpets that came from Tibet,
And the spiderweb strands of a once regal drape.
Cupped like an egg in a frothy current of days,
You, my bird, my bud, my tuft of fuzz and light,
Inherit this coat of broken things,
Something more meager than a manger,
But sewn from all the love wrung
From a wasted life.
Distance, even for a short while, still is
Whether it’s a river or a stream, you still need a bridge
But bridges burn
And even when they don’t
They weather
They rot
They fall apart so slowly
You don’t notice until the floorboards have collapsed beneath you
And you’re left with nothing
Just the remnants of the bond you thought would last forever
Clutched to your chest in agony as you desperately try to fit the pieces back together
Tape and glue and screws and staples won’t fix it
So you begin to fall apart, too
And those staples and screws and tape and glue
Are never enough
To get you through.
"I was born with the meaning of home running through my veins."
— Lauren Eden, The Lioness Awakens, Poems
Golden flicker
Through window cracks
Morning tiptoes across floorboards
Warm like whispers of a mother’s hug
It settles deep in my soul
Lighting lost hopes
Home glows
I shudder while peering at sepia photographs,
showing visits to my maiden Aunt Hilda’s house.
Even though I was very young
it was clear she didn’t tolerate children.
I was to be ‘Seen and not heard.’
Pa said I wasn’t to utter a word.
I loathed being pushed and forced to kiss her.
Aunt's wrinkled leathery skin looked like
she’d been pickled in vinegar.
As she waddled around with a damp duster,
wiping at my finger marks that only she could see,
the wooden floorboards creaked like old bones
for she was grossly overweight.
Her buxom breasts smelled awful
and emitted a musty, moldy, cheesy smell.
Stretchy tan tights were never able to camouflage
the vivid blue bulging varicose veins
which snaked from her calves to her fat ankles.
The old sour puss passed away when I was six
Now, as I reminisce, I will no longer remain silent!
The Tiger Lily is gently removed from the lounge
so it wont ever come in contact with the cats fur
My visitor asks for Steppenwolf on the player
The song "Tenderness" has reticence
Its hard to know if we are romantically involved
having never kissed
Perhaps we share too much intelligence on one another
the quiet detective work overplayed !
We agree the floorboards creak
they may need replacing
She inquires if the boiler needs replacing too
Frightening...
The night is heavy, thick with dread,
whispers slither through the air,
calling voices long since dead.
Frightening...
A knock—too soft, too slow, too light,
no one should be at your door,
not at this ungodly night.
Frightening...
The mirror shifts, yet you stay still,
a shadow moves that is not yours,
a shape that bends against your will.
Frightening...
The floorboards creak—too close this time,
your breath is caught, your pulse runs wild,
yet silence lingers, stretched and vile.
Frightening...
A whisper brushes past your ear,
a voice you’ve never known before,
softly breathing, I am here.
Bloodcurdling...
A scream splits through the dead of night,
sharp as glass, raw with pain,
choking, gasping, lost from sight.
Bloodcurdling...
Footsteps pound down hollow halls,
too fast, too near, too filled with dread,
yet silence lingers after all.
Bloodcurdling...
A door swings wide with aching groan,
a shadow lurches, jagged, wrong,
its breath is heat, its touch is bone.
Bloodcurdling...
The walls are slick, the floorboards creak,
something drips, slow and thick,
a crimson trail too fresh to speak.
Bloodcurdling...
A whisper hums against your ear,
too close, too soft, too full of glee--
You thought you'd run... but you're still here.
I was worried they’d paint the house brown
Or red or green or blue.
I couldn’t even imagine
They’d turn it into something new
Now they’re ripping up the floorboards
Like your absence tore my heart.
It’s as though every nail they place
Tears us further apart.
300 miles plus an extra six feet,
3.5 hours turned into four.
But we never make the drive
Because there’s no home for us anymore.
The earth didn’t stop spinning
When your heart ceased to beat
But for me, my world was shattered
So I’ll never drive down that street.
I don’t want to see what’s changed,
Or the house that’s been reformed.
All i want is to go back
To the way it was before.
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