Poem: What It Was Like

 

What It Was Like

 

light sockets stare,

minimalist zombies,

 

unfazed by the zeal of a flower.

 

leaves

dance, blush, scurry or mope.

 

walls languish,

as continuous as they are anodyne.

 

a poem, written in such a home, 

is just a séance

conducted on the altar of the fake.

 

fugues of inky phantoms

who pretend to remember

what it was like to bloom,

or to fly.

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6/21/24 ... "fake" replaces "slain"

4/8/23 ... chopped off half the poem and reworked the rest.  Completely different, new title, etc.

12/12  "an altar" replaces "the altar"