This Old House


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.

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