The room was empty. 
I stood outside the dark house, 
Looking through the windows and
listening to hot breezes disturb this 
vacant structure with drafts of dank light. 
The building might frighten one who 
did not know it as well as I.
In its hoary decay I recognized the 
structure of my past and the
framework of my future.
All the rooms were empty but the
emptiest of them all was mine.
I move through the halls like a 
submarine captain surveying a sunken ship. 
Mystery specks of attic noise that 
raided my nights of sleep do 
not concern me now. I am grown, 
the house is falling, its empty rooms 
wail with damply flowing memories of 
laughter gone mad. Those doors cast 
shadows, shadows of wind and light.
The shadows become stains which, 
by decree of this family tourist, 
shall be preserved in thinnest lament.





Dark house.
I stand inside.
Mystery specks of noise
do not concern me.
Not now.
I am grown.
Doors thrown open,
their shadows -- cast by
unbroken cobwebs -- are
moldering stains which,
by decree of the
family tourist,
must be preserved in
thinnest lamentations.