In this old, voiceless house

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Sometimes in the ripples of space, in the early twilight of dawn, we look out and up in longing for hopeless hope without the merciless pleadings that usually accompany. Some days we can ration the bowl to be half full, yet others it’s definitely half empty, and as unformidable as it may sound, they are not the same thing.

Sometimes we reach out and pull back empty-handed, other times we find our arms baring an excessive excess that is more than any mortal should ever attempt to handle or mishandle depending. We flicker in the facade of fade filtering in fractions phony formations, the fucking formulas of fuckery. Those can be rather pissy days.

Is it more liberating to awaken in the arms of a lover whom you discover years down the road never loved you than it is to awaken each morning in the arms of a new stranger or vice versa? We are our only poisons consumed at the end of the ceremony, what sinister suckers we seem to succumb to seeking in the reflection of who see ourselves as being. the magic is the mystery of the sides upon which lay exposed upon the tiny miniature cubes we toss in hopes of the pattern revealing what we wish it would but what it never seems to speak no matter how much wine you’ve slipped it beforehand.

I’ve composed a few new irrelevant chapbooks that I may assemble for a personal keepsake or blah record or discard and start anew from a different perspective or retain and possibly submit again until blue in the face I’ve become although I realize I like being outcasted. This would be a very nice addition to one but to feed it upon the page may be too much.

Please speak your thoughts, share if you like it, follow it or something. And if you don’t please don’t be shy, I may bite, but we only live but once, right?

In This Old, Voiceless House

like a villain at last rights,
on death row that very last night,
my heart awaits to be shaken to the core.
silently comes along the heartbreak
even after all the damage done,
what I would not give to rewind,
to be who she needed to find.
when scattered in the stampede of footsteps,
I became not enough. bitterly cold & heartless
in the manner of which she abandoned me.
I do not know why still I feel anything
or try.
lost in the shuffle, swallowed in the grasp of shadows,
every emotion I could not wake
when they were needed the most
was digesting with difficulty every damned detail
as it unfolded and how did where we just were
become so finagled?
what added to us to ever equal to this madness, here?
where everything went from right
to left to gone in one sleepless slide.
with her two-faced voices of reason
feeding his hard-on with her greed.
she birthed these cruel, cold-hearted actions
and vicious acts of treason.
I shiver in the silence of the words not spoken
of this forsaken tragedy.
I break in the echoes
of this old, voiceless house.
I still hear your ridiculous laughter
clowning on some of the cheesiest jokes
it fills the rooms making it home
filling my mind, painting love
as this happiness I was blessed to
be given to know
I touched her soul
and found a comfort in her eyes
that I had never before known.
I break in the silence-
I break in the echo(less) rooms
of days came-and-went-on-past,
those warmest moments.
I am haunted by her ghost
alone in lonely wander,
inside this house of wax
in a time long before the silence.
in an internal rage,
I grit my teeth and scream-
this cannot be real, why lord?
when I had everything I wanted,
everything I needed, in my dreams,
with her cold ass cheeks pressed against my thigh,
my arms wrapping eternity bound to her.
I smiled, once, before I fell a victim
to the jokes of a night,
too blind to see the lie inside
despite all the evidence presented.
my case pleaded and proven accurately,
but, still, I was sat off to the side
like a blundered idea, dying in the collision
with the cold steel.
and I break in the breath of memory
I die every time I force myself through another day
without you here, by me.
funny in the end here becomes
a giant, forever casket,
we lived to afford our stones
to mark our place as we said our goodbyes
on our way out. I broke once clean in half,
here in this old, voiceless house.
and watched them all watching back
a smudge that tarnished the marvelous glass
I never got to say to you, I do.

About Post Author


James (Jim) Miller was born in the late 1970s in a rural, little, northern Indiana farm community. He grew up between Indiana, Florida and a short stint in the New York area. He attended Vincennes University (Indiana) where he majored in English-Creative Writing, Journalism and Music-Audio Recording. During his time as a student, he held an editor position for 4 semesters at the university newspaper, The Trailblazer. James is a lifelong writer, a lover of new experiences, people and travel. Currently, he is employed as an auto factory assembly worker and part-time cook in Indiana. A couple of earlier poems of his were published in The Tecumseh Review (Vincennes University) in 2000 and various anthologies between 1997 and 2000. He releases a regular poetry series "Ghost in the Reflection" every other week on and on April 20th, 2019, his debut solo collection "A Footnote for Tomorrow" released and remains available for purchase.
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