Gazing her ‘home’ being fell, getting renovated new,
Its narrow creaking door sprayed with bright blue,
Rose a very deep sore ache in her slow-paced heart,
Her weak memory flounders towards the very start,
Those steps, where she sat making little Finn’s hair,
Sat cheering loud, little Lin playing tag, at the stairs,
Today she stands weary, dead, unable to move, think,
Her poor self worn as the steps, she looks, sans blink.
Her worn house furnished new, only to house her,
She muses deep to herself, in fashion that’s unclear,
When young, parents help child ascend steps, anew,
Why can’t child help them descend worn steps, in old hues?
Coming into senses, she sees the mason with trowel,
She refuses to let the mason fill the worn steps, well,
And now when people pass by her so called house,
Worn stairs are chuckled at, not matching the new house.
This post was written in response to Thursday Photo Prompt: Worn #writephoto, hosted by Sue. The challenge was to use the image as inspiration to create a post on your own blog… poetry, prose, humour… light or dark.