This Old House
This old house rests in
obscurity at the elbow,
on the narrow, the dusty, tatty lane
Battle-scarred and war-weary,
shutters dangle at the windows,
fleshy- paint peeling, contorting.
Passers-by seem indifferent,
or of a detached curiosity,
deemed not worth a second glance.
Yet a second glance is warranted,
look past the pummeled shell
that once housed a celebrated belle.
Few rarely glance to discern an occupant.
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, shallow;
proffer pity. In secret thank God
the battle-scarred, war-weary, dilapidated
is not their coating.
The Maker sees what lies beneath,
my Darling, glimmering glow.
Few discern the occupant.
See, my Darling?
Look past the pummeled shell,
for what exists within the crust.
I am human.
To some, it doesn’t matter.