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.
Copyright © Robert Franklin | Year Posted 2022
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