11-04-2023, 11:10 PM
The slabs of slate above his head,
the white walls around him, and the bricks
piled high beneath his feet
holding up his home: he's grown afraid
not of the vines whose roots dig deep
into the mortar, cracking much more than paint,
but of the house itself -- not of the skips
in the records he often played
when he was younger, but of the music
itself: their melodies and rhythms
serving lines too earnestly embodied
by those too young to know the world,
those with the audacity to rail
against their ivory towers.
the white walls around him, and the bricks
piled high beneath his feet
holding up his home: he's grown afraid
not of the vines whose roots dig deep
into the mortar, cracking much more than paint,
but of the house itself -- not of the skips
in the records he often played
when he was younger, but of the music
itself: their melodies and rhythms
serving lines too earnestly embodied
by those too young to know the world,
those with the audacity to rail
against their ivory towers.