Faint squeak of a rusty gate,
Door ajar, and smoke crowning the glowing roof.
Crackling fire, muddy yard soaked from buckets of water
Thrown at the consuming flames.
Rinsed and immaculate with its once varnished ghosts of walls,
This house superimposed on pavements’ mirror of puddles
Once held dreams intact
Warmly during winters and summers of a turbulent life.
At such times, his fascination with death taking on a fevered pitch,
And since death is unknown until one stands at its gates,
It was life that said it required his absence,
Thus he falls among sparkling fires of the afterlife without aim or tether.
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