Under the flowering plum
His brother brick in hand
Had let it fall upon his toe
Weeks passed in silent wonder
At the toes changing colour
First blue, black, then grey
Until the nail came clean off
Leaving exposed flesh and this
Horror of what lies underneath
Here was his room and bed
Memories of nights spent rigid
Under blankets as storms howled
Wind whipping branches against
Windows like old mans fingers
The fear in him still lingers
Ghost of childhood insecurities
Persisting into the present as
A vague distrust of pensioners
Gnarled extremities
The kitchen table still
Stands solid as a fortress
Way too big for the space
But preferable to its cousin
In the formal dining room
With its dark colonial air
And stiff cushionless chairs
Where eating became torture
To be endured without talking
While ones mouth was full
His parents bedroom remains
A taboo realm of dark secrets
Precious objects and fear
Temple to vengeful gods whose
Wrath was swift and precise
Aided by their all-seeing eyes
From which no fault or crime
Could be hidden for long
A power he now possesses
Conferred upon him by age
This house was a factory
Where quality control had
Gone right out the window
Churning out broken people
So much time spent nurtured in
The black heart of beige walls
Must crush what the soul calls
Its need for freedom and so
He always feels coming home
Is never as sweet as leaving it
© shaun patrick green 2013
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