Oyana

over the smooth caramel - rich

drip, drip, the sap of the elm gross

human bodies can't move

bound by mold, sweet sautéed rosemary

clung for ages on grinning ceilings

sorry, my dear, this here

compels your psyche into a disorder

up in here is no entrance to a home

no one is here but the smell

so crude and so sere,

isn't it ironic to look for comfort in a shrine

bedecked with garlands and brier

before rodents cleaned all the bones

there was a faint scent of sage

now, it's all but the tang of old age

age, not of flesh and brittle bones

but that of blazes died down to inferior ashes

to most, home is a passage of time

the rest are walls, monuments not good to us