The gate.

The ceiling has bowed
and I know, that I know
that for me, from this room,
it’s time to go
from this chamber of heart,
this grand mausoleum,
whose walls have encased
my mental museum
of gathered memoirs,
old relics of days
where true love was given
and grace was exchanged
where the carpet grew worn
by the pacing of feet
and it’s bright flowers dulled
from the dirt off the street
while the floorboards gave way
to the rotting of wood
and the locks never locked
quite the way that locks should
where my breath through the winter
formed  cumulus clouds
and the cars speeding past
blended in to the sounds
of the cracking of paint
and the dripping of taps
through the meowing of dogs
and the barking of cats
and the slamming of doors
and the groan of the gate
who swung on his hinges
from morning till late
while he watched from the road
looking back at his house
who he loved from within,
though he always stayed out
as he waited and knew
her high ceiling would bow
and that I, in my time
would pack, and then go.