My house is a silent house But listen closely And you'll hear the ever-turning scratch of the ceiling fan The constant ticking of the grandfather clock Passing cars and heavy wind vibrating the windows Looking out, the trees are sighing Dying Every leaf panicking with each eager gust What is nature seeing? What does it hear? Observing me as I observe it My slow and steady silent sighs My thumping heart's persistent slamming Increasing with speed at passing thoughts My gulping down of liquid memories My bones creaking and aching with pangs of rejection Overgrown nails scratching at the surface of my skin. Digging to get rid of an unceasing itch. Untouchable. Are the trees digesting that which my body refuses? My teeth pressing themselves into the plush pillows of my lips Keeping blood where my face has otherwise drained itself. Pale as the undead. Walking mindlessly. Heartlessly. Silent footsteps radiate this house's skeleton. Rattling bones. Climbing the ribcage, Pulling up through the spaces Sit for awhile. Watch the crimson muscle pump The sound of my wandering eyes looking around for salvation. The creak in my neck as I turn my head from its position of elongated staring. Staring at nothing. Nothing is left. Shifting uncomfortably in a chair too hard Oceans built up against the dams behind my eyes waiting to be released into canals down my cheeks and neck Settling into t-shirt stains that wont wash out No one is left. My house is a silent house. Feel my rivers flowing. Hold fast to them if you can and drown me. And I will fall clamorously to sleep.