This Old House
This old house rests in
obscurity at the elbow,
on the narrow dusty road,
battle-scarred and war-weary,
shutters dangle at the windows,
flesh-colored paint peeling, contorting,
indifferent, detached curiosity,
dismissed, not worth a second glance
glimpses of the occupant, a rarity.
A second glance is warranted,
Oh, look past the pummeled shell
that once housed a celebrated belle.
Old Robert’s road diverged I’m told
my travel does not have the pleasure,
but a path, straight and narrow,
briar-patched, imperfect measure.
The beautiful ones, a club I’m expelled,
I long to be reunited––really, do I?
Battle-scarred, war-weary, dilapidated,
houses one who Stands Above, yet nigh.
My Maker sees what lies beneath,
that’s his name-–Moon Maker.
Will my humanity be pondered?
Look past the pummeled shell,
for what exists within the crust.
I am human.
I am pummeled.
To some, it doesn’t matter.