AC ( / )

Blow This House Down

i open my eyes to the fading winter
the capricious melody of pre-dawn buzz
the phone trembles at my bedside
shaking me into unjustified awareness
it's too early to be alive

rhythmic drops abuse our pride
as they beat upon his notion of a home
cascading down victorian windows
cool cunning finding its way to our basement
as i'm submerged in all this life

his lips dance in the chill of a February morning
fragile gasps of air flee from his mouth
each not escaping on cue
playing the twenty years of our lives
so delicate and incessant

i endure the cadence as he wakes
behind his thin veneer of black coffee and old journals
cozy in his leather chair, basking in his own warmth
i watch the truth flow in and out and wonder
Will I be here when the rhythm stops?

by Adam Conway

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