Voices at the Window

A dark epic in eleven movements 

I. Empty Rooms 

Every footstep thunders tonight. 
The floorboards groan beneath their borrowed light. 
The ceiling fans spin out my lies, 
humming them softly toward the outside— 
lost lullabies drifting into the void. 

I count the tiles. I count my breath. 
I feel my heartbeat pulsing in my neck. 
The fridge hums low, mocking my unraveling. 
I have lived alone in this apartment too long. 

Empty rooms echo my feelings back; 
every silent moment becomes a trap. 
Shadows gather at the edge of sight, 
and every soft noise makes me jump 
in fear of the night that knows my name. 

II. The Cardboard Choir 

I cut new friends from glossy magazines 
and paint the remnants of my broken dreams. 
I stand them upright in a scattered mess— 
idols for no one, monuments to hopelessness. 

They clap when I cry, 
turn their backs when I ask why. 
A cardboard choir, thin and dim, 
singing siren hymns that drag me in. 

They cheer, they jeer, they wholly agree 
that I am nothing good—nothing to nobody. 
The louder I sing, the less they care; 
the more I create, the more I despair. 
Their numbers grow. Their silence swells. 
I am trapped in this paper hell. 

III. The Imaginary Friends 

I built a friend from air today, 
just to speak the silence away. 
He told me things I longed to hear, 
programmed to whisper close to my ear. 

But soon he invited others— 
ghosts with faces I know too well. 
Their laughter sharpened, their singing soured; 
they mocked too loud, they circled like wolves. 

Imaginary friends refuse to rest. 
They move the chairs; they haunt my steps. 
They recite my poems, then curse my name, 
swearing I’ll die alone all the same. 

They shout like my father, sneer like my kin. 
Every insult carves deeper within. 
“You’re nothing,” they chant, “you’ll never belong.” 
Their voices drown my weakest song. 

Why does everyone hate me? 
Why did no one say they loved me? 
Perhaps that’s why my imaginary friends 
learned to bare their teeth. 

IV. They Moved the Furniture 

The chairs stand wrong. The curtains hum 
with winds that never touched my home. 
I swear the table once faced east— 
now it twists like a crooked beast. 

The dogs of hell arrive without names, 
their shadows barking in perfect rhythm. 
The clocks collapse; the seconds bend. 
Time forgets where it should end. 

Furniture shifts when I look away. 
Voices insist where I must stay. 
Every room has grown a tongue; 
every lamp screams what I’ve done. 

X. Voices at the Window 

Neighbors lean through my thinning walls, 
mouths like knives, whispering fast. 
I cannot step out; I cannot be seen— 
they all hear the secrets I bleed in sleep. 

I saw their faces in the dark once, 
mouthing truths I could not hold. 
They tell the world what I have become. 
Now the voices number more than one. 

Voices at the window call, 
echoing loud against my skull. 
Even silence tattles my sins; 
ghosts and neighbors gather the wind. 

XI. The Last Dream 

I left my name on an unlit street one night 
and folded my body beneath a cold sheet. 
If anyone asks what I became, 
tell them I simply forgot my name. 

The lamp’s soft sigh turned thin and died. 
My imaginary friends burrowed inside. 
Every word I ever wrote dissolved in their tune 
and lies buried with me beneath a wandering moon. 

If you find me drifting through your sleep, 
hold my shadow—let it weep. 
I was a bright man burned alone; 
I was a story you will never know. 

Close the book. The ink runs dry. 
No voice remains to say goodbye. 
And if someone asks what happened to me, 
let the silence speak: 

I dreamed myself to sleep— 
permanently.