Normal, balanced, well adjusted,
treachery inside the soul. They work
to fix you as they break you. Feasting
on your heart and other organs 'til
there's nothing left but mothballs in
an attic you once called your mind.
Memories sit dormant like records with
no hopes of being played. Chairs rock
but only slightly as the cobwebs hold them
back against the boxes and boxes and boxes
of old things devoid of meaning that you keep
yet only for the sake of being kept.
Nothing stirs the dust or rearranges;
sunlight merely acts in shadow.