Dust from the Crumbled House

Savantly she withdraws within her lair,
Gazing momentarily at herself in the mirror,
Her cheeks are flushed like roses in spring,
She quickly puts back on her wedding ring,
She sprays whiff of her aromatic perfumes,
She relaxes as she exhales noctivagant fumes,
She settles down onto her leather couch,
Straightening the creases of her frayed dress,
Her vagrant sins hidden for another day.

Lumbering loads of a manichean definition,
He hauls his weight up onto lanky legs,
The coolness of the nascent wind,
Like lashes of needles on his naked skin,
He hasten to dress in his nondescript clothes,
and slips out into the narrow hallway,
Dimly lit like the dawn streaming inside,
He steps into his car and drives home,
Praying that another day passes in escape.

The boy wakes up in the vinegary night,
He stumbles out hoping for maternal solace,
But finds himself solitary in a lonesome house,
His Begetters wander making nocturnal sins,
He weeps silently in his shallow bed,
As doors open and guardian voices approach,
With turgid concoctions of unfamiliar perfumes,
And as the voices argue into the dawning sky,
He sees the decaying fragments fly,
The Dust from his Crumbled House.


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