Constructs

My palm traces nook and cranny,
touch alone resurfacing old memories.  
Can there be loving a place with no purpose? Perhaps
between the wallpaper and the bricks, the peel and blood;
without a flickering light, exactly here - the walls confine me.
 
A prodigal daughter returns. It was easier to spurn
the love only freely given. My dreams concerned
marble steps, mahogany doors; a pool, and checkered kitchen floors;
 
now the place creaks beneath me. What used to be home
is unknown labyrinth; blinds bear dust
coating and pipes shriek glimmering rust. And darkness shelters
forgotten past. There is no point in weeping in 
a house worn down, about to combust.