gray day poetry

harsh antiseptic lights pried open
unwilling eyes
soul portals that would be closed
but the body still had too strong a hold

still lying there
so slow so late
humming lights
metallic daze
regret is the most bitter
of tastes

the walls here were barren
empty
stark
nothingness pale

strangely like the walls,
the walls of home:
well adorned
papered
painted
stale.
hollow.

so many fastidious hours spent
making that house a home
the time spent finding the perfect paintings
the perfect loveseat
the perfect matching kitchen floor and stove.

the hours spent anxiously earning the keep that would buy
the perfect car
the perfect garden
the perfect scultures
the ultimate set of university degrees
the most polished jewelry
the most perfectest of lives

so many years spent
so much living locked away
in the mind's dustiest of corridors-
if only these had received the sunlight
so carefully ushered into the halls of the physical homespace.

too little too late,
it's not the house that makes the home,
nor the external superficialities that make the soul,
not trappings
not face display
if only sooner,
regret is the bitterest to taste.

alone.
cold sterile whirring cold.
so much to see and be
but too hollow,
too old.