there sits an attic

atop of every house this street.

and while we sleep

the soundless footsteps

are the soundtrack of survival

timing is vital

when there's too much time left.

it's what comes away

when the beads from her necklace

roll across the floorboards of this room.

days go by

but we can't tell the morning

from the night.

we wait for cover,

for blizzard winds to white out the bodies,

the things we did.

but memories creep up

through the snow.

we'll never recover

from all of the others

on whose footprints we tread.