House of the Dead IV
https://poems.culturing.net/2026/09/08/house-of-the-dead-iv/
I return again to the house of the dead
where the ghost of Isis haunts these hallowed walls
with a face too kind to be true.
Why were these walls sacred? Must it be
that they keep out some evil, the kind
that wells up in the secret place, when another
expresses desire? But why desire? The voice of the call
summons pain and the swirling of water,
a whirlpool that drowns all identity in darkening spirals.
What can survive? Have there been too many questions?
Too much revising, softening old stones, that now
the ground itself simply melts?
I would find a place to stand,
or the strength to stand, or the strength
to keep out the water, to keep the ground solid
and firm. Only then could I open the door
to a guest.
