Eviction
Poetry
The rain has no home.
It slowly strangles my soul
watching demons implode,
collapsed steps blocking the entrance
and recesses
inhabited by my muse,
ghosts of ivy league schools
crushed, expunged, expelled
with prejudice, without cover or excuse.
In younger days,
contemplating open minds and closed doors,
I tried to wrap my head around it all,
believing the body is the temple of the soul,
not realizing that the soul was the scaffolding,
the glue that held me together
it went beyond the physical
body and soul,
one being rented,
the other one sold.
Desire lassos the heart
in hours empty and dark
a candle burns each taunting remark
and haunts every crevice,
words like butterflies embark on their glorious exit
waiting to be born,
hoping not to be caught
never wanting to move out
like an unwelcome eviction.
And with vision impaired
bones brittle and scared
the anorexic moon keeps drifting,
the rain has no home
and the mind plays with riddles,
when the soul
gets evicted.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
