A clock ticks subtly on the wall
Embers char gently in the fireplace beneath it.
Silence is all that can be heard, silence is all
A house of still voices rests on the eve of another day.

Milk spilt on the floor, a bottle of beer still left on the table
Fridge door left unhinged, a coat fallen off the hook
Maybe it’s a party? Maybe he’s still stable?
Alas, it’s the house of still voices, resting on the eve of another day.

The rooms are filled with blankets and mattresses, like a dream for the one who can wonder.
Voices still cling to the walls, a laugh, a cry, the taste of lips in a dark movie theatre.
Maybe it’s a party? Maybe he hasn’t been dug under?
The house filled with still voices sleeps in the dawn of another day.

If one follows the trail of strings and wrapping paper
It leads to a leather chair.
Sitting in it is a collection of thoughts, of views, of memories that have formed a thin vapor
With a sigh and a yawn, the house of still voices awakes to another day.

A clock ticks subtly on the wall
Embers char gently in the fireplace beneath it, like a tire swing as it sways.
The old man who hosted the party awakes, with a grin from ear to ear
Today will be good, today will be happy, today will be a day of days.
A house of still voices makes a sound.