I am a soul, woven into the floorboards of a house that once carried people, but now carries dust. I lay with secrets and lies buried deep below the footprints left behind.
I have little hope that time will be regained and if I have to —with remorse and regret— I will piece the tiny fragments of hostility back together until my skin rubs raw and my fingers bleed—
as it was I who so selfishly drove the life away.

Like a screen, so horribly attached to the wall, a life is played from start to finish, and I wonder—ponder of prospects;
was I crazy? —or— could I still be?
The dust bunnies, hidden below splinted furniture, the spiders, in their silken webs, and other souls that lay at rest seem to laugh at the screen.
Are they laughing at me? —or— could they be seeing something different, like their own, drab lives?

Silence consumes me suddenly and I feel weightless—
like an octopus floating dreamily and subtly through the depths of the sea
There is no laughter —no screen can be seen anymore hanging on the wall that has holes though it and no life is playing before my tired eyes.
Like an apocalypse, the outside is dark and grim, and it is hot and sticky —like the days in summer where it rains.
Like an apocalypse, I hear no noise, I see no movement and I smell nothing.
But coming from a soul, so rapidly left behind, who’d expect anything more?