Smokehouse

Houses hold energy like tar clings to tires
The vibes float like smoke,
the auras mingle like mist.

They cling to the furniture, to the clothes in the closet,
to the bookshelves of books and dust.
It clings to the silence most of all.

A house retains energy like a mind files memories.
Its being is built from its containment,
molded from their essence.

After everyone has left, after the door was locked shut,
the house is a tomb
of disturbingly, hauntingly, metaphorically, pain-stricken, sublime emotions.