Relics (House of Stolen Light)
by Ryan P. Kinney

When I pull up in my battle-scarred truck
That old song is playing on the radio
Whose lyrics I have misheard and, hell…
“Who did that **** song, anyways?”
Nonetheless, of what I do hear through the cracks and pops,
It definitely suits this house

It’s an old run down bi-level, with a winding porch
And more windows than walls
But the windows are heavily tinted and shades are all half drawn
The windows do not let the light into the home,
But rather steal it, consume it into the darkness, never to be seen again

How many neighborhood rumors revolved around this home?
For how long has it been whispered that THIS is THAT haunted house?
Or this is where that one creepy guy did that one horrific thing?
Or even that series of horrific things?

Did the boogie man originate here?
Inside the darkness of that house, stealing the sunshine from precocious little boys and girls
Finally freed from the confines of scholastic imprisonment
Until eventually their days of play started getting shorter
And they return to their nine months of confinement
With no one to blame but the invisible tenant of that ever decaying, but seemingly indestructible and insurmountable home

I imagine a stone in my hand
To be thrown into this house of glass
I picture it not breaking the glass so much as piercing a pool of darkness, that ripples across the entire house, melting each window and finally freeing everyone’s abducted childhoods
I see the sunlight exploding from the foundation
The cracked, brown leaves in every dead, broken tree suddenly springing to life and filling with green
Years of devoured Frisbees, kites, and baseballs launching into the air from every crevice

And then, I think, maybe appearances can be deceiving
Maybe, this house is not so much the spooky old ruin
But rather a cracked and worn old photo album
Housing years of relics of lives spent well and with love
Love that our generation could not possibly fathom
Devoid of the electronic means of expressing and spreading it

How many boys turned men turned soldiers here?
How many mothers turned grandmothers, turned cherished memories?
How many years were cried over scrapped knees and first loves?
Or spent on lover’s lanes, backyard barbeques, and drunken sibling brawls?
Is that old tire finally getting its deserved rest from someone’s swing, or off the wheels of a well-loved ancestor to my vehicle?
Who’s lives and legends were parked in this dusty driveway?
Who’s footprints am I standing in right now?

Maybe those dark windows never really robbed the light
But, rather were meant to hold it in for the love growing inside
So that anyone within would always feel its warmth and brightness
And anytime someone left that house, they returned that light to the world in kind
Richer and brighter than it ever would have been had it not spent its time within those walls

Who are you, oh house of stolen light?
What secrets do you hold?
How many childhoods were used up here, either stolen or spent fully?
What lives have you had?
What adventures can you tell me?

I smile.
“This is gonna be fun.”
As I kick in the front door

(Dad returned this to me tonight, apparently I wrote it in the 90s and he found it and saved it for almost 20 years)

Love hides in the moon,
Where lies and deceit hide too.
But you don't want what you got,
'Cause I'm just an astronaut.
God hides in the manic eyes
Of the maniacs you despise.
And if I'm just a man on the moon
Well then I'm still part of you.
If it will take a tragedy,
For you to see the truth,
Then I just hope I'm still here for you.
All things are fleeting,
And soon I'll be gone.
Gone sailing on ethereal seas
Of forgotten songs.
Joking 'bout my wrongs
With time's tides of traitorous throngs.
Laughing while the ones I love
Chase Maltese Falcons,
And society sinks shaking in withdrawal
From the loss of knowledge
That god is eminent
Throughout the body of existence.

I feel like I'm betraying you all
when I say I'm gonna stay,
then I start packing anyway
and backing out the door.

How can I explain this?
The pain in my heart won't quit,
mind caving in on itself,
and no one liked me extroverted.

No one liked my stories,
all the people, the places
I went without you.
How would I feel if it was you.

No one wants to think,
you might have had it better
than they did.
who can blame them?

Better to keep it in,
to keep on packing,
to keep on backing,
out that door again.

Our feet tread the same ground,
our lungs breathe the same air.
Yet, my suspicions are mounting
of a disparity between our realities.

To you I'm barely here,
to me you're barely there.
If we should chance to meet
"Long time, no see!"

Then lean in to embrace
and solidify our greeting,
we'd pass straight through
with barely a feeling.

"Well, take care!"
Then it's over,
impersonal
and so fleeting.

"Goodbye."
"I'll see you again."
on the other side,
my dear friend.

Let's go on living like nothing ever happened.
Let's press on, push through, with one eye and all 9 fingers.
Let's give up our crutches, and take up all new habits.
Let's make good on all those past resolutions.
Let's be somebody, Let's make something of ourselves.
Let's dream and talk about ideas.
Let's move on. Let's keep living.

Seagulls pacing dark skies.
Walking circles below,
with a cigarette, in the snow.
Thinking of reuniting with you.

I went back to the past,
exhausted by everything new,
estranged by my time with strangers.
Dreaming of reveries untrue.

I went back to the future,
but all it showed me was you.
Nothing of what would become,
nothing of what we would do.

I wanted to break that portal,
to cut myself off,
to be free of prophetic visions.
I was afraid to be alone.

So I let it sit,
like a canker,
like a cyst,
until I would be brave enough.

Brave enough to step through it.

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be—
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands