I live in a house of my own construction.

It’s as white as the cloudless moon

And as clean as fresh linoleum

But with windows, more befitting to a board than an open home

And with doors that have seen no use,

Nor are given any place.

It is a solid home

The product of years

It was built by the brick

And cemented by ego’s mortar.

It took shape under pressure that never ceased

Even after the lines that divided the wall’s form

Became indistinguishable, unintelligible, and then unknowable.

Then, it was set to rest above a treacherous landscape

Unforgiving, just as the forces behind its fashion.

It is a dangerous spot for a home

But in the world, there is no place safer.

I made sure there would be no staircase up

No ladder, lift or rope

So that there may be no intrusion,

Or solicitation of such fragile things as hope.

I made my home nearly perfect now

Unbreakable, undeterrable

Without feeling.

It’s a work worthy of my craven pride

Something I should surely feel

Once I’ve finally made it inside.

I regret not having the latter now

Down is so far below there

And I’ve built myself so high up here

Must be wary of my step

A sharp fall can break you,

shatter you,

so much within.

It’s better if I walk away

As I have always done.

The wind up here is so fierce

And I’m simply so small…

Probably should just stay in

Behind the wall

Away from the eternal torrent

It’s safer there

And so very quiet.

I fear there is no way out now

I’ve set the final brick

Sealed the wall

Set the silence

Killed the light.

But I should not need to leave it now

It’s finally complete.

It’s finally so perfect

Finally so safe.

Everything is how it should be

How I made it to be

How I wanted.

And yet, I can’t help but find it curious

how something so grand

and so complete

could feel so cold on the inside.