Delirium

I’m in a house.
It is still - sleeping; no exit.
Tranquillity’s bosom
has trapped me.

The living room, now outlived.
They’re remnants of the past.
It’s empty, now devoid of verve.
Relics now manifest.

Stench disperses
into a faint cloud.
It burns my vision.

...Transcendence.

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

The walls, stained with the
time of tribes before us.

There’s furniture untouched, camouflaged with moss,
a congregation of various cutleries, chipped, rusted.

How long have I been here?
So much dirt. This used to be life.

Glass is strewn across the table,
midair fragments motionless.

Amidst the grime,
I see a hilt in the corner.
Its shine mumbles about change.
Hidden sagas.

When I pull it out,
heightened voices
enclose me. They
descend into screams, crying.

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

Everything is a marred synthesis.

The house crumbles, reverts to adulteration.
Whence it came, whence it came...

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