Family Crest

I can hear every noise this house makes, supported by a skeleton of steel.
The termites eat away at the foundation and it’s only a matter of time.
And your family crest hangs on a frame in the hallway next to a painting that
you made when you were 10, and each brush stroke glares a reminder of a simpler
time when we were more concerned with living life than with what it meant.
Enveloping and circling my mental state.
This house is empty; every sound reverberates.
So I plug my ears and try not to communicate but it has taken hold.
I keep a notebook under my desk so I can write all my dreams down,
or at least what of them I remember when I wake.
Spending hours scanning the pages for some indication that these dreams and
life might somehow intertwine.
Because more than anything, I just want to believe it; that we all end up just
where we should.
And we can all have faith in the decisions we make under shelters of concrete
and wood.
So I evaluate the options I’m presented with.
Navigate these notions of embarrassment.
Long to learn