Life in a brown plastic bottle - Poem 5 (Home)

(I Won’t Give In To The Vera Lynns)

I will never sit on the edge
Of a damp bed,
Looking at the dead skin
Of my family.
The dregs of my memory.

The house so old,
It inhabits me.

Its dust the surface crust,
On all that enter
This festering dark,
Of my misery,
Of my destiny.

The paper cracks,
And mimics me.

The walls bleed, the carpet feeds,
When I fall to meet it.
This terrible fragility,
The smell of decadence,
The waste of decades.

The bright pills wink at me,
The temptation begs me.

The floor creaks as the need retreats
When I hear children,
Their horrible laughter
Their shrieks of pleasure,
I identify, and treasure.

The plants forfeit,
Their lives for me.

The air thickens, the only beacon,
When my eyes dim
Their yellow lights,
The fogs descend,
On memories confined, coffined.

The life flies,
Suicidal, out of me.

The walls thicken, the throat tightens,
When night comes.
This unholy sleep
Deadens evening,
Out of breathing.

I will not give in to the violins,
I will not kneel to the godliness,
The pictures will never capture me,
I cannot live in darkness.

I will not be sapped by weekly visits,
I will not lie down for the nurses,
The skin will never smother me,
I am not dead surface.

The body so tired,
It implores me.

To give it leave, for them to grieve,
Its final wish,
This healthy farewell,
To milk skin, hair of golden honey,
Its last post and glory