They say a man’s home is his castle.
But all I’ve ever wanted was a turret,
some stairs, the sun
cracked in to bask my fortress of skin,
some friends on my horizon
before death sets.
No more do I need to own anything
than the river I run with,
where I scoop my thirst
and pass on to another
possessionless place.
So why do I slather on bricks
with windows so thick no arrows can come,
and no light as well?
What army comes to menace
but the grief I’ve built for thirty years,
that lives inside these walls?
(c) Timothy Tiernan, Dec. 31, 2013


About writingseraph

I write. I share. I test out language here.

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