married with the hushed and quiet
fadings of laughter and lifesharings
come scampering down this
horrendously-pattered carpet,
speeding through treads created by
the boots of workers
(suspiciously like servants)
and the heels of high-brow ladies who are
wrapped up in the furs of once-alive creatures.
the comings and goings of luggage carts
and thousands of stories
are embedded into each frayed thread
(well, the reds and beiges, at least,
but perhaps not the sea-foam).
the cheap perfume aroma of far-off edibles
invade each nostril,
masking the faint odor of history
until i cannot remember who was here last
and i am once again distracted by a
thunderous commotion,
trailing behind its owner like a curious puppy on a leash.
the flesh-colored wallpaper is encrusted with
songs and tunes from who-knows-when,
like a meticulously baked pie,
drowned by the clamor of present patrons.
how i wish i could breach every layer and
play each soundtrack against the
delicate needle of a phonograph.
the padded thud of a boot against the carpet
forces images of tasseled dresses and feather boas
from the depths of my cluttered crown,
reminding me that we will all someday be
the soundwaves captured in these walls,
waiting for the day someone will set us free.
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