Saturday, January 16, 2016

Elapsing Epoch

Echoes resonate, reflect off the walls,
amplified by a hundred--emotions embedded
in a baby's cry, in her teething smile.
Footsteps clatter on the floor above, trickles of sound
waft towards nostalgic ears. The scratching of a pencil,
under the fingers of a poet. A tapping toe, searching
the floor for iotas of inspiration. Slivers of wood
adorn the closed windows, shielding rustic furniture pieces
from modern wind. A rocking chair,
encasing the soul of a young girl, stirs feebly.

Stilettos step in, carrying sunlight upon her back;
golden gleams of sunlight, silver shards of moonlight,
to a darkened abode. A lipsticked face peering at the
dust-encrusted table, looking at the distorted reflection.
Music unknown to the home blares, tiny feet trample
around. The matured sun shines into the rooms,
as the spirits are forced out--forced out by the winds
of change.

The rocking chair rocks no more--it remains
motionless in the basement. Was there ever a past
in this house? Didn't ancient spirits linger about, filling
its rooms with blood, with life? But they rose into the air,
dissipating with the breeze, with the modern wind--the
wind of today. Peace disappeared, to be replaced with
a clanging, a menacing din; as the old house--into
a new era--was ushered in.


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