There is nothing here in this castle

[heslopian]

There is nothing here in this castle.
The game room, the kitchen, the parlour, the hall,
each are furnished elaborately,
with mantles carved to look like vines,
deep armchairs of unblemished velvet,
and faded prints lining the walls,
but there is nothing here in this castle.

Step into the library. The arch windows
and rising shelves, wheeled ladders at rest;
you can feel it in the high ceiling,
the virgin spines of the myriad books,
the dust coverlet on the round table.
No one has ever lived here.

Enter then the nursery. A rocking horse
presides over toys too perfectly arranged,
a welcoming party of soldiers and dolls,
awaiting a guest who never arrives.
The sun slants through a window
and splashes on the skirting board.
This place has never known movement.

Now imagine my body, cultivated from a seed,
a burst of passion, long ago. My arteries
like rooms designed, the way my heart beats,
the shade of my eyes. The overwhelming
absence of a personality, a soul.

There is nothing here in this castle.