A mansion dank, and dark and broken,
Long since word inside been spoken,
Fallen and forgotten place with broken window, beam and door
Pathways hidden, grown o'er and lost,
Twixt fern and flower, weed and moss,
A fairy tale if 'er there were forgotten but not dead.
He stood inside, a long bone wanderer
who wondered what all this was for
as footfall after footfall he paced along the squeaking floor.
Taking one step, then another,
first his left foot then the other.
Broken down and weary, retired lonely, but not dead
Reaching wall he turned and thought,
of what with all this time he'd wrought.
Pacing through this lonely house, a shell of what it could have been
He stood much longer sat and pondered,
looking round the blue-gray walls.
Then he paced two more and faced,
the prospect of these barren halls.
He broke routine and went and looked.
The sheets removed, the drapes he shook.
Digging deep inside this house that must hold more than empty space.
deep inside the darkest hall,
He found an old familiar wall,
and sitting at its base forgotten brushes paints and ladder tall.
Week on end he spent redoing,
walls and ceilings, furniture moving,
till with time inside unique, he placed his final touch.
Today nobody stops and pauses,
as they pass the mansion gray;
But inside the world is moving, variable as a brand new day.
He brought to light a hidden wonder,
caught beneath in sleepless slumber,
A place he knew existed but pushed beneath inside his head.
And he moves on, himself fulfilling,
running notions through his head.
And though the outside unbecoming,
inside is much alive, not dead.
Long since word inside been spoken,
Fallen and forgotten place with broken window, beam and door
Pathways hidden, grown o'er and lost,
Twixt fern and flower, weed and moss,
A fairy tale if 'er there were forgotten but not dead.
He stood inside, a long bone wanderer
who wondered what all this was for
as footfall after footfall he paced along the squeaking floor.
Taking one step, then another,
first his left foot then the other.
Broken down and weary, retired lonely, but not dead
Reaching wall he turned and thought,
of what with all this time he'd wrought.
Pacing through this lonely house, a shell of what it could have been
He stood much longer sat and pondered,
looking round the blue-gray walls.
Then he paced two more and faced,
the prospect of these barren halls.
He broke routine and went and looked.
The sheets removed, the drapes he shook.
Digging deep inside this house that must hold more than empty space.
deep inside the darkest hall,
He found an old familiar wall,
and sitting at its base forgotten brushes paints and ladder tall.
Week on end he spent redoing,
walls and ceilings, furniture moving,
till with time inside unique, he placed his final touch.
Today nobody stops and pauses,
as they pass the mansion gray;
But inside the world is moving, variable as a brand new day.
He brought to light a hidden wonder,
caught beneath in sleepless slumber,
A place he knew existed but pushed beneath inside his head.
And he moves on, himself fulfilling,
running notions through his head.
And though the outside unbecoming,
inside is much alive, not dead.
Well, another self-reflecting poem...It didn't start out that way. I wanted to write a poem with random stanzas and rhyming patterns. I wrote most of it with a 'raven' feel to it which was fun. Pretty self-explanatory I think. If you have questions or are confused feel free to post your concern. I like it when people give me feedback...the harsher the better. To quote Mr. Mellen: "you never improve when people tell you that you are perfect."
I like it. To me, it's about bettering yourself. Renovating the inside even if the outside is unimpressive to everyone else.
ReplyDeleteFavorite part: "Digging deep inside this house that must hold more than empty space."
Keep writing McKay. I'm enjoying it. :)