Echos

Creaky wood floors give me away as I roam the hallways of this ramshackle fortress. These old empty veins that used to carry life Rusty nerves are dulled and mute I walk a well worn path, softly. Curtains always drawn They shouldnt see But, It’s Spring again I bet that weeping cherry is blooming Seems so empty now And it’s aged so much The many coats of peeling paint Just like tree rings, The feel like eons Hallway walls are mostly mirrors now It makes them seem more vast, Nicotine stained outlines of lovely things that once hung there. Call to me Poking from behind the mirrors They Haunt me, Tease me, shoot daggers into my eyes I don’t look in mirrors anymore. Too likely to see my reflection And there’s always a new one to avoid. I cant remember what I look like. I just remember scared red eyes So, I look straight ahead, And focus focus focus I’ll follow a familiar path Straight from their hallway To the boiler room That old heart pumps it’s dust and mud That loyal heart, Keeps this place alive That broken heart feels like home The gears start to rattle, But I know how to soothe them There’s threads to pull And gauges must remain below tolerance. I don’t dare leave them for long: focus. At least there’s no windows or mirrors down there. Straight back to my favorite hallway soon as it’s safe I don’t look in their rooms anymore. But I press my ear to the doors so I can hear them The the worn echos of laughter where they used to play. Like an old polaroid, that’s fading to white noise, or a record that’s been played too many times. I convince myself I see their shadows moving under the doorway But I feel them fading. So I must not disturb what’s left Tight grip: focus Footsteps litter the hallways I only step where I’ve stepped before, so I don’t disturb what’s left of theirs But they’re filling with dust like morning snow on yesterdays sled trail They’re all mapped in my mind now. Every detail For a moment, I clear my mind I think of waves, fresh paint, Dirty feet Sunrises And special tear drops But with a twist of the gears I’m reminded there’s no time for nostalgia. Maybe tomorrow It’s time to go sit with that poor boiler And watch the gauges after one more quick listen for the lovely echos.