Like ancient wallpaper peeling at the corners
pulling with it the patterns before it revealing
plaster in crumbs and crusted states and before that
the lath behind all, the ribcage itself hiding behind
what we thought was the true wall
that's how it went the time we spent in the old cottage
when the light would die and other older lights
would smoke up the corners of our eyes
and remind us that we weren't alone other souls
inheriting their place in history the unrecorded
stories the unnamed the voices
only a faint echo making us turn once or twice
to see who's there? Did you say something?
Did you hear that? To the point that we began
to wonder if we were merely finishing
someone else's sentences
left to wonder who will finish ours
as we recede into the dark
it's all around us now an emptiness
without structure without end
an entering and entering
always straining to hear
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