There is a burial ground excluded from the graveyard.

A house stands eroded, inundated with pain and memories,

Demolished by guilt, falling onto its knees for yearlong passivity.

The house stood upon the walls of silence, persisting, set afire.


It is my house and yours.

We’ve lost years of our lives.

Looking out of the windows.

Framed by sills and harsh wood.


A life’s work, the house stood tall.

Gangrenous home, eradicated and expulsed by Mother Earth.

There can be no more life there, love at all, none, ever.

Distorted, the terror distilled, into a vacuum, of golden lies, of facades, of pretentious faces.


Smiling across beating hands and tongue drums.

The house of endurance, of fortification.

Standing without shame, holding all the wounds prisoner.

Unspoken. The rooms deemed unfit to be lived in.


That’s where you and I collapsed.

At the sight of a photograph, the melody of a well-known song,

The eruption of a familiar smell, a face appearing out of nowhere, a message.

Did you ever rid yourself of the house?

Disinfect your heart?


Or are you a collector of dire memories?

Letting them spin you out of control, of yours.

Throttling you, the emotions resurfacing, the past becoming present in your dragging

Body that is still carrying the

Weight of the house

That we lived in and

Still exists in both of our minds.


“Too Late” by Herbert Gustave Schmalz (1856-1935)

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