The Mansion.

Between porcelain cups and plastic leaves,

The muzak hums it's hollow tune.

Octogenarians dissolve like sugar in their weak teas — edges blurred, their moments thin.

But an insect’s bite: the only truth that stings, draws

And Come Together plays, but no one blinks.

The mansion stands, a stage set for the fading

While pilgrims walk its edges,

Restless, unassuaged.

I measure a life in coffee spoons,

yet still the void awaits

Beckoning.

A silent witness at every table,

nibbling crusts of another time,

As I recoil in panic.