Shaking and faltering,
pulling down linen,
from a closet, in the hall
of this wretched house,
that has known me
for nearly forty years.
Who's once perfect floors
have suffered the harsh steps
of a child's feet, as I paced endlessly,
the night I learned my father had left us,
and so many nights since.
Who's now silent walls
have strained to echo
the passing elation, in the innocence
of my laughter, those few times,
when cousins visited
and I knew some kind of happiness.
Who's darkened windows
have kept out the warmth and light,
leaving nothing but regret and longing,
to fill my crying eyes,
forever too blinded to see
any kind of hope.
Who's forbidden doors
have held in,
the horrible pain and fear
of my quiet little life
lost in lonliness,
afraid to touch the world.
Who's battered roof
has sheltered, a cold and silent heart,
the frailty of my empty soul,
pulling down linen to refresh the bed
in which my mother died
that hasn't been slept in since. 


Copyright 2003 Pierre Ortega