Hanging in decrepit halls
with moth-eaten oriental
tapestries. The books in
languid decay, leatherbound
spines sagging.
Home of the elderly
layered in patterned
upholstery. The
strict wingbacks
wheezing dust
underneath
the neat
a patriarchal
head
of the moose.
In oaken splendor
the taxidermal air
lie thick on the mantle.
Sleepy-eyed
in some
undying wisdom
it hangs
in the darkened corner.
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