In these stuck between hours
I discover the noise of being
that comes from an atmosphere
not used to being heard

The warping of the wooden doors
goes on unabashedly.
Like animals in untouched climes
they scurry along unaware
of conscious eyes that stare
only for selfish reasons

The observer adulterates
a once selfless night

Nowadays the timbers under
the floor have lost their
native timbre, taken on
a softer echo of carpet covered servility

Even after mistakes are recovered,
these once savage floors can no longer reclaim
any primal creak after being tucked into
domesticity for so long with soft footsteps of children
paired with repressed stomps of soul-starved adults
left cold by countless other floors never once
imbued with the life of a home.