Stronelairge

I am sad, resigned, I look out with
bleary eyes, my panes stoned, windows
slung wide, my face dirty, streaked,
my life carelessly unwound.

My timbers ripped out, walls gouged,
my doors gape in a grimace of
lost pride, knowledge
of brutality.

I was brightly-coloured once,
but now painted over with a thick
harsh brush of greed, I am
blinded and lost.  Can you feel

my confusion?  I am bewildered
by these batterings.  Where did they
go the laughing people who
used to clutter my rooms with

chatter and light, the clatter of
movement?  Parties and feasting
long into the night, I remember
I used to be warm and happy,

I was filled with life, but now
my halls and rooms are empty,
desolate, they echo only to the
rasp of rain through

jagged windows, and the razor-cut
of the wind's keening, unframes
my soul, I am splintered, sharded,
my spirit is split and broken,

dragged to a thousand
places that are strange.  How
I am fragmented, tortured, 
forlorn I wait, submissive

for the next person to
come and pick
a piece of me, I sit
still solid, but empty

and hollowed, and my cries
can be heard by the trees
and the water, the hills my
friends, as the

last bone of me is prized free
by the cold touch of the chisel
and I am shelled by memory
resounding in my bare sides,

as my skin is parted from me
and I am peeled by the rain,
then, then will I die, house
and home undone.

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