The Silent House is never silent.
The wind rustles blinds
The fan hums
While in the chapel moths flap their flurried wings.
The blood sounds rushing in your veins.
The stairs creak and always something cracks or bends in the pipes.
The papers swish
Her hair brushes
The swallowing of air as it is intaken
But in the silent unsilent house
In the loudly quiet house
She put her ink to the flame
She hopes love might consume her in some mad glorious blaze
But rather she is alone with her strings and chords and pens and pages and ink alight.
Alone with her thoughts and her fright
Alone in the bleary winter of night