Beneath old houses

They generally check every corner, I was told.

They generally look at everything, they told me.

They will generally scrap out the metal taste from your mouth,

And fill your perfume bottles with rancid breath.

You won’t fool them, I was told.

 

They will enter with footsteps unheard,

Scratching the walls with bloody fingernails.

It took me so long to hide everything behind yellowing wallpaper,

That this is all the wall is anymore.

 

But underneath the numerous

 

Broken things,

Dusty celings,

Footprint-coated dust…

They will find frozen poetry,

Barely breathing.

 

And everything will be still.

There will be colour of the words,

And the wrinkles of a silent sigh.

And everything will vanish and

Vapourise with a rotten-ness,

Tangible enough to feed on.

 

Or,

 

When I will hold up my day tomorrow,

Under crooked light,

It will break and ebb

And I will realise that I have

 

Nothing to write of.

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