these walls are skeletons,
and this district a graveyard
for the termites to feast
on foundations like maggots feed
on flesh so pale. so blue,
i find myself ascending the steps,
light-headed to the attic.
old homes are like old corpses,
fascinating and timeless,
legendary, but relics fit only
for demise. sure, renovation,
but only a genius can do that
to a corpse. even god can’t reconstruct
the temple, the pile of flesh
torn by earth’s bottom feeders.
i can only kill to the end of time
to prove the futility of this
task. homes will rot, and this
is where exemplification starts;
havens for arsonists,
rapists, and lurkers. places
where strange men watch, wait
for your children to pass,
and follow them home.
but i am an artist,
and i will kill you all.