It's just how it is.
Sorry.
Condemned,
like a building no longer fit
for habitation,
where the dry rot has spread to our hearts
and the termites are the tiny monarchs
of our crumbling ambitions.
When I was a child,
we always thought such houses
to be haunted.
Maybe our young selves
heard an echo of some truth;
that a haunting was coming.
Not for these broken-windowed wrecks
but for us.
Sorry.
It's just how it is.
Sleep tight.
GREAT POEM BEN This is my favorite part of your poem: When I was a child, we always thought such houses to be haunted. Maybe our young selves heard an echo of some truth; that a haunting was coming.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ben No More poetic language than some of your others, but with that same stoic storyteller sense to it. -chuck