This place I live.
Stairways and railings and
Stone cold floors and shutted doors.
Noises from T.V’s and conversations
Not meant to be heard.
Plants on the window sills vying for sunbeams.
Dust in the corners and vacated cobwebs. The
Occasional stray letter or leaflet.
Up and up and up I go, past
Those others doors always closed and find myself
at the top, away from the streets and cars and people and noise. Above the trees. Familiar stillness, an open door this time.
Warmth and quiet, the smell of just washed clothes drying on the clothes horse. Incense sticks now gone cold but it’s scent lingers slightly.

Home. Breathe now.Home.
This place I live.


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