Empty Discos Standing outside the night club You look at its Christmas lights. They fill July with bourbon. Hot breeze disturbs the vacant place. Drafts of light squirrel past the bouncers. In its swelling decay you recognize structures of your past, foundations of a rotting future. You move past its halls as a submarine captain, surveying sunken lives. Every life is vacant yet the emptiest one is yours. Mystery specks of attic noise crackle unheard through sleepless dance floors. Houses still standing have fallen. Their emptiness churns with slowing memories of happiness gone mad. Doors, forced open, inhale shadows of flash and gust. Memory becomes stain.

Empty Rooms Standing outside the dark house I look into its windows, filling silences with bourbon. A hot breeze disturbs the vacant place, curling drafts of light. The building would frighten one who knew it less than I. In its swollen decay I recognize structures of my past and foundations of a rotting future. I move through the halls as a submarine captain surveys sunken ships. Every room vacant yet the emptiest room is mine. Mystery specks of attic noise that crackled into my sleepless youth do not concern me now. I am grown. The house, still standing, has fallen. Its emptiness churns with slowing memories of happiness gone mad. Doors, forced open, inhale shadows of wind and light. Memories become stains which, by decree of this family tourist, shall be preserved with thinnest lament.

The room was empty. I stood outside the dark house, looking through its windows, listening to hot breezes disturb the vacant structure with drafts of light. The building might frighten one who knew it less than I. In its swollen decay I recognized structures of my past and frameworks of a drifting future. All spaces emptied I found the emptiest room was mine. I moved through halls in the style of a submarine captain surveying sunken ships. Mystery specks of attic noise that raided my nights of sleep do not concern me now. I am grown, the house is falling, its empty rooms swirl with slowing memories of happiness gone mad. Doors pushed open inhale shadows of wind and light. Shadows become stains which, by decree of this family tourist, shall be preserved in thinnest lament.

The room was empty. I stood outside the dark house, Looking through the windows and listening to hot breezes disturb this vacant structure with drafts of dank light. The building might frighten one who did not know it as well as I. In its hoary decay I recognized the structure of my past and the framework of my future. All the rooms were empty but the emptiest of them all was mine. I move through the halls like a submarine captain surveying a sunken ship. Mystery specks of attic noise that raided my nights of sleep do not concern me now. I am grown, the house is falling, its empty rooms wail with damply flowing memories of laughter gone mad. Those doors cast shadows, shadows of wind and light. The shadows become stains which, by decree of this family tourist, shall be preserved in thinnest lament.
Dark house. I stand inside. Mystery specks of noise do not concern me. Not now. I am grown. Doors thrown open, their shadows -- cast by unbroken cobwebs -- are moldering stains which, by decree of the family tourist, must be preserved in thinnest lamentations.