Mitch Thronson, Contributing Writer

Alone there sat a little house, 

protected, safe and sound. 

A place that they could rest 

when life’s monotony brought them down. 


Listen to the ballroom music 

filling up the air. 

Each flickering moment passing by 

with a dreamy sort of glare. 


A table, sofa, TV 

and a spiraling staircase 

that leads them to a special room: 

their designated place. 


With this room being the one of all 

that upmost resonates 

with this specific person 

through the joy it eminates. 


A thousand things to look at 

and a million to recall. 

The pain. The joy. The suffering. 

The emotions through it all. 


But as the months went by 

the house began its slow decline. 

The joy that once was present 

was much harder now to find. 


Eventually the household 

held no meaning anymore, 

and all that could be asked was 

“Have I been here once before?” 


The rooms inside were empty 

and its layout made no sense, 

as if to be paired  

with their regressing cognizance. 


Confusion’s ever-present 

and the memories aren’t there. 

In place of what was once a dream 

is a miserable nightmare. 


When out of nowhere shadowy figures 

lept and danced about. 

They chased the poor soul endlessly 

and while running heard them shout. 


“Ah! No! They’re trying to capture me! 

Can someone help me please?” 

Alone inside the empty house, 

engulfed by the disease. 


The house grew even heavier, 

yet lighter all the same. 

The rooms grew even emptier 

through numbness and through pain. 


But take a moment, listen now, 

and try to find the song. 

Do you hear crackling in the distance?