Demolition doesn’t kill—

festering—

finding comfort in rotten structures

held together by half-hearted renovations—

inhabiting a life

far past its date of expiration—

that’s the Grim Reaper’s slow caress

on a fragile soul.

 

A life blown to pieces—

is blessed.

Inhaling air

outside a black mold home’s contamination—

living far from its infestation—

it means to at last nap

without a ceiling above

threatening its collapse.

 

A life—

blown to pieces—

crumbling into a pile of panic

means climbing out,

cleaning up—

activating minds to will eyes

to find new foundations,

commanding two hands to build homes

with brittle wood and rough stone.