What an old house it was! A tightly worn painted coat fails to mask aged crack and sonorous creak. Listen, you can hear a drip dance of droplets escaping from frosty fissure. The growing cancer eating away its plunder, an insatiable hunger. Moulded and mildewed beam’s seam splintered, With closer look oft mistook for kindling timbered. Purest white silence that deafens hearing, leering windswept melodies that scrape and sting. I came round the bend with the intent to mend, only to discover my old house was, missing.
Giuseppe Gillespie – Apr 2021
Giuseppe Gillespie Writing 