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Description
you were a shadow in the hall,
when i first saw, you,
  shouting
"Curses! Curses!"

    and all that was known
  was etched into bone,
and hollowed inkstained fist,

    upon which,
you layed,
      with your   crystalline shell,
  and   your  thoughts, as kept
in a littleredbox,
left untouched,
        by   your yellow faded hand,
written,
   in inkstained hues
and washed out whispers
       of the shore where i first
saw you
  climbing on the wall,
    the cliff,the rock, the shoreline,
and falling down
   to the sand
with the pier,
  dead shimmering,
     and    the echoes
and the soft white reflected light,
  of the beach, the shore, the water
that night,

   you frowned,
in a eulogy
  for the man you knew so well,
in the back of your mind;

  in the mirror, in the dust, in the walls you carved
shapes   fed by the sun,
   a faded yellow ribbon    tied,
around    a dead-dandelion stem,

         "i'll be there soon"


      Curses! Curses!
  you shouted, cried out, denied
in no fit state
     to be floating around

    i saw you,
a shadow in the hallway,
   black by black with cloak and hat,
screaming into this emptiness of words.

     i knew you once,
  you were buried in a grave,
and   covered in dirt and silt and
     dead   memories and condolences
that were only half-meant, as said by those who never knew you



you could've found
   a deeper truth
but in the depths of this
    deepdarkblue,
          you felt   your   life fade

Curses! Curses! it's happened again,
  i'm seeing whispers
of longdead men
      and the shadows they cast
  and the things they said last
         and all the pettylittlevoices
ringing in their heads

you were a beautiful child,
  with  orbed and rounded crystalline eyes
    in the hue, in the depth,
  of   a  faded yellow smile and truth.

          and the staircase, where you lay,
     is covered     with   age.
   and    the square framing picture frame crooked and blank,
         holds   the image
    of  better things

             with a rope
        in lassoed style
                 and   a note
          scrawled meanwhile,
   containing verse,
      that   was only heard,
  by those who understood.

   you were a beautiful kid;
     with  fists  and  shouts
and   a   fury in your voice
     and the holes in your wall
   ovalesque and off-center,
reminding you of
    better times

(and we'll make him a man,
    teach him how to fight,
   how to weild a furrowed brow
  and we'll make him a man,
    and we'll make him a man)

  and   you   live
in this house of leaves

do you live
in this house of leaves

  how can you live
in this house of leaves

    "i couldn't leave, this house of leaves"

why won't you leave,
leave me be,
   echoing in the hall,
with images of the pall,
  shouting,
    "curses! curses!"

you never left
this house of leaves

     and the echoes are so
skeletal   and framing
   and,darkdarkblank,     moving
in the dark, pitchpitchblack your dusty attic room
      where you   hid    drawings   and descriptions
  of where you would live soon;a betterlife;a betterwife; "i'll be there soon"

     in   a room,
  furnished   only  by twighlight
       and   empty  shells,
  and   voices,
   held,
     in the spaces in between your whispers,

yelling,
   "Curses! Curses!",
with your body in the pall,
   and your shadow in the hall,
     a conspiracy of seeds,
sprouting   from   the paper,
   facing out, and sprawling into
     a    vast  network of inkstained hues
  and
       the work  of a spider's hand
   (which will never go forgotten),
         spread across that parchment,
closing   in
    on    the  faded words you once wrote there,
  in the mirror, in the parchment, in the dust, (you were mistaken)
of    that   old   wedding  gown you found
   in    the closet
  reading

             "i'll be there soon,  with you,  in the water, in the mirror, in the shoreline, in the light, where   the   whispers they echoed,   and  the earth it  shone bright..."


blankblankdark,
in pitchtruehues,
        tarred and feathered,
    and   driven through
  the ghosts on the road
       between the echoing of shores, washed out,
  in saltwater cues

      and  there were voices
   and there were shouts
     and there were condolences
    and itwasallsoloud

and there were somanyofthem-somanylives

   all  of them cut
so short,
   a string,
  or   peice of paper
folded into origami   and cut into
  sunfed shapes
which sprouted from the ground
in inkstained whispers,
  that  drifted,
out of the ground,
  deepdarkblacksmokepouring out of their throats,
knowing   the most
  and seeing the least
      of anything
i've ever seen

   but i don't see them, now,
not in the morning,
  or afternoon,
or ever, really,
   i only
feel them
       and   hear them
  and project them
into sarcophagi spheres,
of blackandblue crystal,

  i drew,
a picture of a man
    who was not quite a man
but an effigy  of  a memory,
  told in whispers
    and smoke.

   laying,
  by the staircase,
      where he made,
   memories   of sliding down banisters
and into soft carpeting
   banging his head
on   the steps on the way down

  until one day
    he slid and slipped
and fell and cracked
   his fragilelittleskull
  on the wall,
    leaving his brains
   in a fractal pattern on the wall,
       where all his life stood
      and it could never be removed,
    or faded,
         for some strange reason,
and so only stayed there,
  covered by crooked picture frames
    holding images
of famous people and family members
      and the lives they still had

Curses, curses, it's happened again,
  i'm seeing   whispers
of longdead men.

Description
you were a shadow in the hall,
when i first saw, you,
  shouting
"Curses! Curses!"

    and all that was known
  was etched into bone,
and hollowed inkstained fist,

    upon which,
you layed,
      with your   crystalline shell,
  and   your  thoughts, as kept
in a littleredbox,
left untouched,
        by   your yellow faded hand,
written,
   in inkstained hues
and washed out whispers
       of the shore where i first
saw you
  climbing on the wall,
    the cliff,the rock, the shoreline,
and falling down
   to the sand
with the pier,
  dead shimmering,
     and    the echoes
and the soft white reflected light,
  of the beach, the shore, the water
that night,

   you frowned,
in a eulogy
  for the man you knew so well,
in the back of your mind;

  in the mirror, in the dust, in the walls you carved
shapes   fed by the sun,
   a faded yellow ribbon    tied,
around    a dead-dandelion stem,

         "i'll be there soon"


      Curses! Curses!
  you shouted, cried out, denied
in no fit state
     to be floating around

    i saw you,
a shadow in the hallway,
   black by black with cloak and hat,
screaming into this emptiness of words.

     i knew you once,
  you were buried in a grave,
and   covered in dirt and silt and
     dead   memories and condolences
that were only half-meant, as said by those who never knew you



you could've found
   a deeper truth
but in the depths of this
    deepdarkblue,
          you felt   your   life fade

Curses! Curses! it's happened again,
  i'm seeing whispers
of longdead men
      and the shadows they cast
  and the things they said last
         and all the pettylittlevoices
ringing in their heads

you were a beautiful child,
  with  orbed and rounded crystalline eyes
    in the hue, in the depth,
  of   a  faded yellow smile and truth.

          and the staircase, where you lay,
     is covered     with   age.
   and    the square framing picture frame crooked and blank,
         holds   the image
    of  better things

             with a rope
        in lassoed style
                 and   a note
          scrawled meanwhile,
   containing verse,
      that   was only heard,
  by those who understood.

   you were a beautiful kid;
     with  fists  and  shouts
and   a   fury in your voice
     and the holes in your wall
   ovalesque and off-center,
reminding you of
    better times

(and we'll make him a man,
    teach him how to fight,
   how to weild a furrowed brow
  and we'll make him a man,
    and we'll make him a man)

  and   you   live
in this house of leaves

do you live
in this house of leaves

  how can you live
in this house of leaves

    "i couldn't leave, this house of leaves"

why won't you leave,
leave me be,
   echoing in the hall,
with images of the pall,
  shouting,
    "curses! curses!"

you never left
this house of leaves

     and the echoes are so
skeletal   and framing
   and,darkdarkblank,     moving
in the dark, pitchpitchblack your dusty attic room
      where you   hid    drawings   and descriptions
  of where you would live soon;a betterlife;a betterwife; "i'll be there soon"

     in   a room,
  furnished   only  by twighlight
       and   empty  shells,
  and   voices,
   held,
     in the spaces in between your whispers,

yelling,
   "Curses! Curses!",
with your body in the pall,
   and your shadow in the hall,
     a conspiracy of seeds,
sprouting   from   the paper,
   facing out, and sprawling into
     a    vast  network of inkstained hues
  and
       the work  of a spider's hand
   (which will never go forgotten),
         spread across that parchment,
closing   in
    on    the  faded words you once wrote there,
  in the mirror, in the parchment, in the dust, (you were mistaken)
of    that   old   wedding  gown you found
   in    the closet
  reading

             "i'll be there soon,  with you,  in the water, in the mirror, in the shoreline, in the light, where   the   whispers they echoed,   and  the earth it  shone bright..."


blankblankdark,
in pitchtruehues,
        tarred and feathered,
    and   driven through
  the ghosts on the road
       between the echoing of shores, washed out,
  in saltwater cues

      and  there were voices
   and there were shouts
     and there were condolences
    and itwasallsoloud

and there were somanyofthem-somanylives

   all  of them cut
so short,
   a string,
  or   peice of paper
folded into origami   and cut into
  sunfed shapes
which sprouted from the ground
in inkstained whispers,
  that  drifted,
out of the ground,
  deepdarkblacksmokepouring out of their throats,
knowing   the most
  and seeing the least
      of anything
i've ever seen

   but i don't see them, now,
not in the morning,
  or afternoon,
or ever, really,
   i only
feel them
       and   hear them
  and project them
into sarcophagi spheres,
of blackandblue crystal,

  i drew,
a picture of a man
    who was not quite a man
but an effigy  of  a memory,
  told in whispers
    and smoke.

   laying,
  by the staircase,
      where he made,
   memories   of sliding down banisters
and into soft carpeting
   banging his head
on   the steps on the way down

  until one day
    he slid and slipped
and fell and cracked
   his fragilelittleskull
  on the wall,
    leaving his brains
   in a fractal pattern on the wall,
       where all his life stood
      and it could never be removed,
    or faded,
         for some strange reason,
and so only stayed there,
  covered by crooked picture frames
    holding images
of famous people and family members
      and the lives they still had

Curses, curses, it's happened again,
  i'm seeing   whispers
of longdead men.