Memories are wrecked then rearranged

By a heart-sick son,

Wearing the full weight of silence

In the shell of a kitchen

–

Its pristine body

Chimes the same weary songs

As his worn poloroids,

Filled with throngs of ghosts

–

The soul of Sunday morning’s

Still resounds in the walls

Beneath the colorless world

He has forged for himself

–

The new paint peels away

In the quietest moments,

When the past must preach

Of all the luxuries he’s buried