Derelict Dreams

Every time I move, my bones creak
like the tired frame of this old house
and I yearn for better times, like when
this house felt like a home and not a prison.
I remember the days before it was built,
just an empty speck of land that had
bunnies hidden in the overgrown grass
and endless potential waiting to be found
and then used to house the finder’s vision.
I used to feel like that barren landscape,
I used to dream I could be anything
but I was my own finder and I managed
to build a wretched shack to cause derision.
Each day is a struggle to fix the framework,
a losing battle to keep the roof in place
and shelter myself from jibes and barbs
when every word’s like an incision.
So instead I think of a summertime meadow
and wonder why I really need these walls
which groan and threaten to collapse,
crushing me under the weight of indecision.