I Write Poetry
My heart’s an old house, abandoned, aged. Over grown grass makes is difficult to trespass there. The windows are boarded up blocking any essence of sunlight. Weeds and old vines dance vicariously up the sides. Inside it’s cold and daunting. Quiet and lonely. Dust piled in each corner. It’s hard to believe this place was once full of life. I sweep to make the inside anew, but with each passing year it gets harder to do. Does the sun still shine outside even if I can’t see it?
