Look at my glazed ruin
glass light, dry storm,
rainbow’s home.
Anger sustains
though element gouged,
flag-wind, see my pride.
Faux castle, your ravens fly.
Plague’s sustenance,
last in the line.
Prepared for legend’s time.
Bone brittle, I crumble
brick powder, wormed wood.
Held in charms of
viral salts, corrosive winds.
My house is a closed mind
beyond the mildew line,
but at last it slowly opens
to lick and lash of stormy seas.
© Dai Fry 20th April 2020