— Poetry, prose, and who knows … from the pen of Matthew H. Freeman —
  • Insulative

    I’ve slept through and easily survived
    enough nights in an unfinished house

    to understand it as my second skin.
    There could be no better time to go,
    to shed this shell I’m trapped within.

    The impetus of experience speaks
    so proudly tonight, so well-traveled;
    many rocky pathways, promised. I

    know of warmth, much complacency;
    but until tonight, wind stood as friend.
    There is now a chill within my bones,

    and I wonder: why build doors at all;
    is there a purpose, here, for pane?

    When the wild calls you out by name,
    hands slip so easily through our walls.

    Enough nights in an unfurnished home.
    I’ve slept through, and barely survived.

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