The start of a life is a brick to a building, many more to follow
though the house is never complete. It needs a balcony for better views,
an attic to forget, a cellar for hiding, an extension or two after each surgery,
a garden to bury in.
And then the whole thing collapses, the ruins taken over
by oblivious weeds. Such are the streets our minds wander off to
in deep of nights, awaiting anaesthesia.