My home is not an old home, as far as houses are concerned.
Thirty, forty years at most; and it has grown
For most of its existence. My home
Creaks
The third stair from the top, in the center,
The hinges on the cabinets,
The swollen wood of the door,
But if one is clever, and one is nimble, they can slip
On bare feet,
And never make a sound.

My home, it has a garden, a swath of growing things,
Things that I can name, and things that I cannot.
I grapple daily with mushrooms and mildew,
How they tangle with flowers,
How they all dance together,
And sprawl across rotting wood and steadfast stone,
To cling to paintings revering memories
Of blood
And gore
and love.

Composed at my desk on Gosday, the 19th of Omeian, in the year 18 AC.