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.