there's an old house behind a hill,
dotted with touches of yesteryear.
drained of it's family portrait
it lies awash with floorboard memories. derelict nostalgia.
sometimes i visit the house for a sip of repression,
to straighten the lines of my mind
and feed it eternal truth.
there was an old woman i used to visit,
her skin stabbed of history
with eyes cloned from an obituary.
