Heading down to the catacombs
of the house,
the tomb of forty years
of unfinished pieces,
a boulevard of broken dreams,
half-finished art,
empty frames waiting,
longing for their masterpieces.
Past lines unwritten,
words without arrangement
that spilled out as ghosts
with nowhere to go.
Time to dust off my life,
set the spirits free.
Time to resurrect
the girl I buried
long ago.







