I dreamt of a girl, a girl who was dead.
She had lived in a house, a house where I conversed…
“what is your name?” A ghostly response,
my hearing refrained, unable to decipher.


Still she would tell me, what she attempted to announce,
her mouth now ******.
My courage became fear, I began screaming,
she whispered “don’t turn away”.
In fear I could hear, what she attempted to say.


I dreamt of a girl, a girl who was dead.
Her mouth was bleeding, but her lips were not red.
She lived in a house, a house where she said
“here’s where I died, one shot to the head”.


She continued to tell me of how she had died.
The way he had shot her, his absent guilt.
He was her opposite and told her “I tried”.
She wanted too much-too much as he thought.


I turned and I saw him, his expressionless face.
He said he felt nothing, neither did this former home.
“Not a place for feelings, if that’s what you do”
He would know,
he was her father after all…