Moccasins shed skins against floorboards.
Broken, splintered. Slither. Stealth.
Silent.
Clay-packed crumbly brick. Fireplace glow.
Pecan, oak, cypress, piled under table,
Bed, in corners. Warmth.
Thick window velvet, tattered, bemused with
Years. Dust. Webs. Butlers...long ago
Gone.
One room parlor shack. Mansion cocooned
Moon whispers fluttering, flying lips shriveled.
Moving memories cracked, dry, dessicated.
One yellowed talon-nail scratched her pets
Ears...
'What does the outside do today, eh?
Is this not our world...
Is this not Paradise...? '
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-home-is-what-you-make-it/
