Ink Stained Hands

I don’t like dreaming within this house

as the porch creeks with an uninvited guest

and the stairs bend to the weight of

words we left unsaid�"but then you’re there

with hand out-stretched, saying it is nothing more

than the inquisitorial soul, seeking the idea

to feed the shadows within its eternity as we

are not alone in attempting to displace the melancholy

replicating within our bones as it eats away

the parts of the story we have yet to acknowledge.