A quiet heartbeat rises
from the skeleton of a forgotten home –
singed ribs splayed open for the
evening guests and their liquid opium
from which to view the forlorn grounds
of the new American dream.
The half-unnoticed murmur in the walls
was left to wander freely.
Little patters are often blamed on breezes
in such shacks (if even heard at all)
and the rambling mind of nothingness,
filled too much with black tar
and perished nerves,
is oft not to observe that which is beyond a trance.
With a hum, with a rushing rattle, the heartbeat
Grixdale rouses anew.