The ruins

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.


Comments on: "The ruins" (8)

  1. A melancholy piece this, Ina, but well written. I guess it should be seen as a prose poem, and a fine one.

  2. There is such a depth of experience and a power to your words that I just love my visits to your blog. Some people are a repository of experience, observation and wisdom, and you are one of them 🙂

  3. It surrenders to gravity.

  4. Ghosts love to play in ruins. Poets and architects of decomposition play with them…

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