My Home is not a House

The Utopia in Dystopia

(The) promises we make to our children

Are the ones we ve already broken to ourselves

By and by

You ll get used to it.

You ll scream it and fist it that you won t

Chase time override decisions

swearing blind that the sweat of the days when they wake up under the bite of the nights

will gauge life the thick on the ground

And end up

Shovelling the bones unearthing them

When

The body turns to dust and you start hearing the greatest scariest fleshiest

decomposition symphony the largest dimension of a life lived

in

the moment or otherwise

When

Hands joining in raising quickly belonging

an old man and a woman nakedly true to something unanimously unique

diverse uniqueness

Young

When

Two mirrors double split same wall same people same roof

Same reflection? Do they ever swap places?

Is it themselves Or is it themselves?

Mosaic dynamics counter-tops overflow surfaces

Embedded

Sleeping

Slipping away from it

Sheeting...

Theory precedes authority and the little split in it is the only one honest

Entirely

This house is too old and sickened by its landmarks

When is Now

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