When a House Speaks
at night, in the darkest part of the hour,
during the quietest part of the night,
my house speaks.
painful clanks of plumbing
complain of rusty pipes,
shifting uneasily in iron skin.
walls, old and creaking,
move restlessly amongst rotting wood,
hiding crevices that whisper forbidden secrets,
guardians of things long past,
but never forgotten.
loud murmurings of possessions
lay claim, placing their mark on me,
branding me forever.
screaming in voices so loud
so quarrelsome,
so contentious,
shouting allegations of neglect,
pointing fingers of accusation,
condemning,
entrapping,
creating a cage of deteriorating bars,
invisible, but strong,
until I close my eyes in frustration,
too afraid to sleep.
Copyright © Debra Bonier | Year Posted 2011
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