A poem for the restless soul

I wonder what it's like in that house of yours.

I wonder if the walls talk,

To each other.

I wonder if they tell stories of me.

I wonder if the floors still creak,

And if the doors squeak.

Did you put my poems in a box?

Did you burn them?

Did you read them to yourself? I wonder if you sit on my empty bed, and look around at the life that once lived.

I wonder if you left the yellow carnations to die,

Are they still sitting there?

Or did you throw in rage?

I wonder if you're calm now.

Without a soul to torture,

Do you feel relief?

I wonder if you cry,

Do men like you even feel the oceans that guide our lands?

I wonder if you acknowledge the mess you have made in my head.

My desk is cluttered,

The papers fluttered,

Coffee cup spill smothered.

I wonder if I can find a way to organize.

I wonder if I can repair,

The walls,

Floors,

Doors.

I wonder if I'll ever get to re-write the poem you tore and made all about you.