| R. Patrick Treit |
| Abandoned House,
1995 It was a whim, that day, which brought me there Overgrown she was, adorned with broken glass, old newspapers The date said August 11th, 1978. I was but a child then. The aura of this place, a one time home now lost, resides barely Nearly bleached away by many Summer days Many cold and solemn nights Her memory must be out there, a mystery to myself Floating within another person's mind, unseen Perhaps the man is dead, who lived here Or maybe just not quite living His words are scrawled like a child's on the wall Empty thoughts now I think of his eyes, staring at those walls, writing Were they perhaps as vacant as these windows Beholding a world that did not acknowledge him? Was there fear in those eyes, that desperate tale Of lyrics whispered in the silence, formally? Will no one ever hear the tale of that day Of the thoughts that followed obituaries and scandal In a crisp new tribute to the 11th of August, 1978? I ought, I think, to wonder that I am here I have many miles I could travel, away from here I could forget, like others, and move on to a brighter place Not so old or full of time Not so dense and stifling, almost haunting Yet I linger, compelled it seems to stay Though only for a moment Straining at something just beyond my grasp Listening, peering, nearly desperate Almost haunting |