unwritten whalestoe letters

my poetry spells itself out like johnny truant
and the structural integrity has been overwhelmed by
heroes fighting their inevitable metamorphosis
into the monsters they battle;
creatures that gazed back into their own abysses for far too long

because I walk your hallways with footsteps that echo like
overturned porcelain dogs on the kitchen counter

the weight of your years pressed down on me as if
those reverberations meant something more than age differences;
signified a will to power like a death wish

grew glass ceilings of desperation
as the walls skyrocketed towards redemption

but the black paint is peeling from the walls,
and memories don't grow there anymore