Untitled 2
the ceiling breaks our fall
made up of little particles
of things we used to hold on to
baked into a mess of mass
that finally we tear and smash
the floor becomes the base
for the remnants of this
shattered covering of our homes
the telephone line is dead
the stillness is uncanny
as we listen for words that will
calm our fast-beating hearts
we wait for a word to silence the silence
the chair is empty but it breaks
under the weight of a cloud of dust
while the walls perk up their ears
the ceiling is our door
and even though the lock is strong
and even though we lack a key
we break in our own homes
and finally reach our floors again
we turn on the lights and
sit on the broken chairs
sinking into habitual routine
like we cannot wake up
from a dream
made up of little particles
of things we used to hold on to
baked into a mess of mass
that finally we tear and smash
the floor becomes the base
for the remnants of this
shattered covering of our homes
the telephone line is dead
the stillness is uncanny
as we listen for words that will
calm our fast-beating hearts
we wait for a word to silence the silence
the chair is empty but it breaks
under the weight of a cloud of dust
while the walls perk up their ears
the ceiling is our door
and even though the lock is strong
and even though we lack a key
we break in our own homes
and finally reach our floors again
we turn on the lights and
sit on the broken chairs
sinking into habitual routine
like we cannot wake up
from a dream