And the wall stared back at him,
Clenching its fists.
Nothing in the world could sober it
But it hid its cracks well under a shield of plaster and paper

Dust flying off it in clumps
Sank to the floor.
As if it were a newly fledged bird flying and
Failing, flailing in the musky atmosphere of the dimly lit room

And the house spoke to him,
Through the wall.
Muttering accusations under its breath
But stood trembling and slanted like a broken pillar

The floorboards moved and swayed, dancing;
Tripping over themselves.
They looked ill and with each cough and creak
The house erupted in another fit of anger

Both he and the wall leaned,
Handicapped.
As he breathed out, the wall sighed and watched the formless cloud stay for a second
And then dissipate under his nose as if a scene out of a Gothic novel

He would have addressed the wall,
But he did not.
He had hands and feet and a mouth which the wall did not, but words ran untamed in his mind
And so he projected silence through his lifeless eyes instead

Was one or the other truly alive in that moment?
Or were both long dead.
Each by their own definition, alike and two opposites simultaneously
In an empty house