The monsters quickly collect under the bed
Graduating faster to free range demons roaming the head
Diabolical shadows lurking on the perimeter of the peripheral
Becoming a something far to real to think it still impossible
Unlike fear and loathing, fear and logic are seldomly seen traversing side by side
The unnatural occurrence of an unnecessary ride

By the time an oblivious mind realizes the kamikaze danger
The digits it controls are busy pulling out each heartbreak dagger
Those select few that came through the front from the  back
Create tallies in scar form that are starting to overlap as they stack
Teetering on life's edge as it dares me to take that final step over
Finding it impossible not to follow the devil when there's one on each shoulder

One day we shall meet by the river’s quiet sweep,  
Where blooms, like secrets, in the garden sleep.  

On the right, the florist, her hands so soft with care,  
Tending to fragile lives that grace the air.  

To the left, the trees, so patient, dark, and wide,  
Their roots in silence, where the shadows hide.  

Their limbs, like whispers, reach toward the sky,  
As though they, too, have learned the art of sigh.  

Above us, the moon, pale, her glow so still,  
A quiet sentinel against the night’s cold chill.  

She watches, steady, as our hearts unfold,  
In the twilight hour where time turns gold.  

We shall meet when time, like rivers, winds,  
And silence speaks the language that the heart intends.  

Not in a rush, but in a soft, sweet flow,  
Where blooms, and trees, and stars bestow.  

The river hums a tune so deep,  
The flowers bow, the trees do keep.  

Their silent watch as we draw near,  
A meeting born of calm, sincere.

The door yawns open—
its hinges groan like old bones.
Dust blooms in the light,
a ghost of every footstep
that once passed through.

The walls inhale,
exhaling the scent of old wood,
something sour, something lost.
Wallpaper peels like dead skin,
exposing the raw ribs of the house.

In the kitchen, the table waits,
a chair slightly askew—
as if someone had just left,
as if they might return.

A single cup, cracked,
lingers in the sink,
stained with ghosts of coffee,
lips that once pressed its rim.

The stairs creak beneath my weight—
not in protest,
but in recognition.
They know me.
They remember.

Upstairs, the air thickens,
choked with the weight of silence.
A door stands half-open,
swollen with time,
holding its echoes close.

The bed is made,
but the sheets lie stiff with dust.
A shirt drapes over the chair,
sleeves limp, reaching—
but for no one.

I reach out, fingers grazing glass—
a shadow stirs in the corner of my eye,
but when I turn, nothing waits for me.
Only absence.
Only the house, patient, watching.

I swallow,
but the house does not.
It keeps everything.
It keeps them.

I turn to leave—
but the walls hold their breath.
They know.
I will come back.

I always do.

Night swallows the sun,
leaving only shadows tall—
we remain,all that’s left.

Clouds hide fragile dreams,
waiting for the moon to speak—
the night never tells.