I went to that old house
engulfed years ago by bush scrub
and prickly acacia.
Its door hangs off the hinges, decrepit.
Ramshackle and unsound,
the windows are cracked and besmirched,
alot like my dried up heart.
I feel it race to the familiar beat of,
NO ENTRY.
You hide in there as if
this dilapidation was your sanctuary
when only I can cultivate it with love.
Now the bitou bush weed and gorse
slither their way to your throat.
Lashed ropes of crocodile vines
coil and strangle all your selfish wants.
Standing on the outside, hearing you choke,
I feel the emotional scales of justice balancing,
as your suffused face turns purple.
Finally, your lifetime of hoggish demands
explode from your eardrums,
crumbling the dry wall at my feet.
In the silent aftermath, the bush comes alive.
A stone curlew caws and takes flight.
The platypus gambol and splash under the sun.
Amid the rubble, I wipe my feet on a mat that reads,
WELCOME
