Delirium (second draft, your thoughts?)

These four walls.
They are still - dormant; no exit.
Tranquillity smothers and traps me,
confining home truths unravelling.

The living room, now outlived.
They’re remnants of before.
Generations we’d rather forget,

short out that connection; discarded baggage.

Stench disperses
into a faint cloud.
It burns my vision.
Salty tears aren’t mine.

...Transcendence.

When I came to, it was now a matured home.

These walls again.
Stained with the
era of tribes before us.

Moss-camouflaged furniture is untouched, host to
a congregation of pans, pots, spoons...
all cutleries chipped and rusted.
Tools, all to keep a sinking ship afloat.

How long have I been here?

So much dirt. This used to be life.

Glass strewn across the table,
midair fragments motionless.
Like diamonds at the touch
or that’s what my fingers tell me.

Amidst the grime,
a hilt in the corner.
Its shine mumbles about change.

Relic of hidden sagas, when the past tense waged war
with the future, a conflict pumping ammunition with metaphors
and proverbs not quite palatable to these tongues just yet.

We were still ripening.

When I draw the sword,
heightened voices enclose me.
Their mourning descending into screams.

The dull blade in my hand ripens; wilts
as the wound in the wall ceases to wail.

Everything is a marred synthesis.
The house veers into a cardiac arrest,
crumbling, returning to adulteration.
Whence they came, these four walls... 

This used to be sanctuary.
Now it’s my scented grave.