The Houses of Our Bodies
Slowly we become the houses of our bodies,
the eyes become the windows, the skin is that room,
we feel comfortable to spend our lifetime,
writing poetry, reading books, making love,
we do it all! With time it seems difficult to,
step out of that room, leaving that solitude,
the quiet dissolves more into us, the world,
then seems too loud, the horde seems hollow,
poetry seems an escape, like cathedral after cathedral,
the prayers seem heard, it’s like talking to the gods,
no one can listen to, the tears, the complaints,
are all silent, not like the storms that came upon,
shaking the walls and bricks of our houses earlier,
the house is now drowned in the waters of calm,
even the seeping walls, the fissured ceiling,
chipping paint that curls up our skin,
don’t bother much! Catacombs slowly turning,
into Cathedrals, long talks turning into small poems,
the open door and windows closed inward,
even a sunless day or the city doesn’t suffocate,
shrinking more and more into our skin feels nice,
becoming a one-room body, witnessing the world,
go by from that one window gives comfort,
what if my pace is not matching the speed of many,
curling up into my skin a little more each day,
makes me feel more at home, a sense of belonging to myself,
not in a house, not in a relationship, not in a mob,
the house of my body is my ending,
where you will find all my works, my poems,
the stories I had written, some might stay with me,
in my house only, like myriad prayers written on the wall…
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