I live in this dust; the cathedral quiet loads encasement into the psyche of a lost spirit. The old house plays her tune of shadows; a refuge for the fettered dead, and I dread another rising of the moon.
The small boy will see me tonight and cry, afraid and unaware as he stares at a suggestion of a face, a hint of existence in another place, a bad copy, greyed and lost. At what cost the extension of a soul?
Dawn sprays the walls in light, effaces again. The pain of solitude locks me into plaster. This is no dream, I scream without sound; I stop, unseen. Unheard. Unnoticed. Life without form, death without end.