By J. A. Weymouth
These nights are a high inside old buildings as their mortality weakens
they wake to a sadness, a persistent depression of red oak, soaked
Laughter is the memory.
What childhood lies here?
Chalk litters the corner of two rooms. Simple.
And the hallways are riddled with hooks and screws.
Stains of an aged dust outlines particular squares on its walls while
Mother draws back the curtain.
Sunlight is emitted as the house reawakens.
Only to realise it is empty.
But nothing is empty.
Memories are pressed like flower petals in a book.
The book is still here