I sit on the edge of the room...near the wall, just by the window. Yesterday there were crickets and cicadas singing here. Now the noises are strange and I am confused.
My bedroom is a graveyard near a busy road. Before, the second story room was in a cozy cape...an old farmhouse sheltering generations of other people's ghosts and dreams. Now the room is elsewhere and cold. The grounds have been haphazardly maintained. The lazy sounds of insects and birds calling have been tossed away by the heavy trundle and smell of ill-kept cars whizzing past. I gag on the burnt oil smell.
My room once had a plush bed pushed up to the window where I could see the stars. Two stories up I was eye to eye with the large willow. No more. The room is wall-less. The border now is a wrought iron fence that lines the road that butts up to the now graveyard once room. My bed is stone.
The rest of the house is a rundown old trailer that has been dissected and strewn across the graveyard. The kitchen is near the large mausoleum and the bathroom is in the potters' field.
There is no family here anymore, only ghosts: the shouldas and wouldas and couldas. If only the were dones.
My bedroom is a graveyard near a busy road. Before, the second story room was in a cozy cape...an old farmhouse sheltering generations of other people's ghosts and dreams. Now the room is elsewhere and cold. The grounds have been haphazardly maintained. The lazy sounds of insects and birds calling have been tossed away by the heavy trundle and smell of ill-kept cars whizzing past. I gag on the burnt oil smell.
My room once had a plush bed pushed up to the window where I could see the stars. Two stories up I was eye to eye with the large willow. No more. The room is wall-less. The border now is a wrought iron fence that lines the road that butts up to the now graveyard once room. My bed is stone.
The rest of the house is a rundown old trailer that has been dissected and strewn across the graveyard. The kitchen is near the large mausoleum and the bathroom is in the potters' field.
There is no family here anymore, only ghosts: the shouldas and wouldas and couldas. If only the were dones.
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