Moving On

Perished drapes, like moth-wing dust,

on weakened floor, long trodden.

Wishful windows latch with rust

by once story-chair, forgotten.

Tales got stirred in peeling paint,

layers dimmed in the shade.

Shadows left, and left their taint,

in melancholy jade.

An unlit fire; cold mantlepiece

holds withered blooms, crestfallen.

Hinges squealed in days gone by,

but got silenced by the solemn.

He had to leave his crumbling shell

the roof caused too much pain.

Troubled tiles gripped hard, he fell

as the rafters took the strain.

The colours of his life took flight;

suffocation gave no space.

He opened doors towards fresh light,

then found he had a place.

On looking out, his eyes arose

with mettle re-awoken:

butterflies sleep with their wings closed,

moths rest, with their wings open.