2009.02.09 (a) The Wreckage

I'm like a wrecked house:

They come, they leave,
They sip the liquor,
They lick the honey,
They haunt all day,
They gaze,
They laugh,
They slap the door,
They laugh and dance
Like the dancing poor,
They dance then sleep,
They wake in trance,
They lock the door,
And leave the beasts
Inside they shout again
And laugh.

Still, some of them always have known
And used to plant a seed
Of hope, love, pleasure,
Yet despair is what grows
Sometimes, when they no longer
Water the garden and flowers wither.

Still, some of them always have known
And used to go
To this true garden of my soul,
There isn't one just left alone
Who heeded for the weeds.

Though one has lately assumed the throne,
I'm not going to tell
About this traveller's well
That's given water to the garden,
She's not at all a burden:
Even though at times a stone,
Lately she's made my soul a feather,
Or is it the deep breath before the plunder?

Hours have ticked
Honey she's sipped.

This very crib
Isn't but limp

Seconds have tacked,
She's in, yet glad