inside this house
this house is scarred
from a past that cannot be buried
counting the number of wounds
is an impossible endeavor
at any given moment one of them
will interrupt
your train of thought
perhaps even put you in a trance
trying to downplay their existence
is fruitless
like the chokeberry bush
planted so many years ago
—as if cursed from the beginning
in this place
the clock always stops at midnight
maybe for a minute
but at times tenfold longer
suspending
any & all breath within
september two thousand twenty-four
copyright j matthew waters
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