A House Is Not A Home
They adorn these walls as ugly ornaments:
Invisible trails of vermin
Painted with the bile of bitterness
for all to see.
The roof is a dome of cobwebs
Spun with entangled filial threads
that trap the sun’s warmth
Plunging the enclave in perpetual cold.
Its fragile foundation,
quaked by a split along maternal lines
that displaced brethren into separate camps,
still records intrigues and suspicions as after-shocks.
The patriarch wears a mask of anger
to scare off domestic intruders
and hide the wrinkles of frustrations
Etched so deeply on his forehead.
His smiles are as rare as comets.
They brighten this chasm of darkness in a flash
then disappear into oblivion
with a furious blaze.
The pain of deprivation sears like hot knife
threatening to rend soul and spirit
Hurting relationships with peers
Dulling the senses to learning.
The wind howls in sympathy
to mournful tales of vineyard trees:
Wilted leaves and gaunt branches
Yearning for the refreshments of fertile soils.