Old Silences
By John Herlihy

The house was full of old silences, dark corners,
Whirring overhead fans and stairway banisters.
When I stepped into the room I immediately knew,
Like entering another time, other feelings a-brew.
The po-faced clocks hung impressively on the walls,
In this house of the dead and dying, time but crawls.
Within these walls, time showed very little moment,
I surveyed the dusty rooms feeling little atonement.
The seconds and minutes blend into hours and days,
Drifting like morning mist creating a far deeper haze.
Each of the empty rooms was adorned with a calendar,
As a way of remembrance that life is our sole challenger.

With the clock’s ticking, there was hardly silence at all,
The house seemed to be listening, holding itself in thrall.
The grand patriarch of the mansion now lay quietly dying,
The walls, the eaves, the attic, the structure itself sighing.
The spirit of the man had not yet taken leave and departed,
The house now haunted, the ghost of the man dark-hearted.
The man’s destiny held a story now steeped in exotic tea,
As the spirit of the man well knew it was now time to flee.
In his final breath, the last thing taken from him his will,
The devil waited outside, perched on a gate perfectly still.
Old silences protect their secrets to last an entire lifetime,
Their revelation aged in wooden casks filled with ruby wine.