+ The House Of Maltus Poem by Jordan Legaspi

The house of Maltus


When I arrived in this house-nothing’s new,
the furniture’s hands were cold,
the decor’s eyes were blue,
the carpet’s all over were gray,
the tiles and the marbles were crack,
till I walked all through the old passages
and passed through the mute doors
and end up to the ground where seeds
planted and would bore no flower
only the roots of solitude after these years
only the dry blood crept to the ground and hide
the memories that cannot be called life