Wrinkles

The cracked door purrs and
hums as it is stroked by
the cold, dark ghosts in
the night’s wind,

Carrying the scents of home
from an unfinished mug
by the window
through lungs of smoke,

Soft walls scrawled with a
tradition and a heritage
from farthest lands on
which I lean like a rock,

Beneath the white sheets
that I mark with
flames from a golden dragon
held on the left, or the right,

This place is my home,
my prison, my saving grace –
My collection of memories,
sprayed on a furrowed face.

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