Home of the Vacant

A poem about old experiences


Here is the house

The Same Colors
the Same Window dressings
and the Same coffee mugs
even the Same People
here, in the house

But the words seems different
The transient wanderings now lay still

no waves, no thunder, no friction
No hellos, good byes, or even "kiss my asses" to be heard
Just a cold track laid without thought or regret
Even my memories are confused
Even my hands are feeling old like its once again new
And this drama seems to be saying something, somewhere
to someone........but shit, I cant hear it