This is something i wrote about a year or so ago. It's about the house where my grandparents lived. It's been several years since i last visited the house, someone else lives there now, but there was, and always be a distinct feeling it gave me. None more so than a feeling of stillness and of different times meeting in one place. Like each room had been locked in to the time of it's last real use.


The smell of the study

A musty timeless constant

Smells of static

Smells of still

Does the room only exist under my gaze?

Time wanders through this house


The upstairs window

There’s a chair

Always empty

Always there

The occupant who is never there

Sits and stares

Atop the stairs

And listens to the humdrum rhythm

A slowing chorus of cars,

The sound of time decaying.

The bureau lies shut

Was it ever not?

Dust from another time

Sits under dust from our time



Its life of old.

Books that decay if read today

Letters, that in our hands

Fade away.

The garage lies empty of now

Yet curiously,

Empty of then

A temporal vacuum.

Nothing ages because no time passes


The freezer keeps time out,

What lies within does not decay,

In the dark, it cheats life,

But there it stays.

Like the letters,

Like the book,

My hand,

My time,

Will bring about the decay.