there are those
bearing within them
palaces of the mind
besotted with grit and disrepair
walls rubbed raw
shrinking back
because the afternoon sunlight of others
can be cruel
as it is kind
they run memories
on injured projection screens
but fear melts them
like flames and celluloid
so all that is left is a maddening whirr
that translates into ordinary pain
that makes everyone villains
who look to enter their spirit
and find a seat to stay
the price of admission
is knowing how to collect their broken windowpanes
and piece them together
it is letting your words and deeds
add lasting coats to cover the bruises
of their pageantry soiled by those who left
the price of admission
to these ruined palaces of the heart someone owns
is of course, love.
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