A house
that grows taller
may collapse
or be reborn,
its brick spine
realigned,
& new colors
applied to the relic.
This house
stands rigid
in gauzy light,
an old man
using breeze
as an inhaler.
The front steps creak
under the Visitant,
bearing cerements.
The porch, a broken hip
holding up thin walls of bone,
struggles with the sacred load.
The Visitant enters, offering vespers
in sepulchral whispers to the reluctant
host, shrouded in brown.
Thin hallways carry away the
clutter of memories from
a heart beating slowly.
The weary drummer
laments on a forsaken
rug stained with years.
An old clock
resounds with birdsong,
announcing the hour of requiem.
Drapes close the eyes at last for
a holy sleep of languor in
the arms of the
Visitant.
©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Image: Pixabay.com
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 
I love how you structure this poem as a tower to represent the history built and the marching on of time. Well done!
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Thank you! And someone said the shape reminded her of what a priest uses during a mass. Not being Catholic, I’m not sure what the device is called.
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