The threshold is cold, a barrier of dust I step inside, in the shadows I trust By the window, a silhouette stands Watching the street with her translucent hands I look through her chest to the pattern on the wall Scribbling notes as the evening shadows fall She reaches out, her fingers like a mist I keep my focus, I simply resist I pretend she’s a trick of the fading light As she points to the kitchen, shaking with fright A spilled inkwell, a half-written page A journalist’s life, in a silent cage The ink is still wet, but the story is torn In the house where a hollow ghost was born She claws at the void, she tears at the veil Dredging up memories, jagged and frail She shows me the gallows in fractured glass Empty sockets weep as the minutes pass A frantic dance, a silent hollow scream Pulling the threads of a nightmare’s seam She’s begging for truth, she’s begging to be found While her broken thoughts scatter on the ground The search moves out to the edge of the woods Away from the house where the silence broods I’m looking for marks in the tangled ferns While she follows behind as the daylight burns I find a camera, lens cracked and blind Capturing the moment she left behind She hovers over, a flicker of grief Searching for the path, seeking for relief I ignore her weeping, I focus on the mud Tracing the absence of struggle and blood The garden is dead, the lilies are dry But the soil is soft where the roses lie A scent of iron beneath the damp pine Crossing the edge of the property line She claws at the void, she tears at the veil Dredging up memories, jagged and frail She shows me the gallows in fractured glass Empty sockets weep as the minutes pass A frantic dance, a silent hollow scream Pulling the threads of a nightmare’s seam She’s begging for truth, she’s begging to be found While her broken thoughts scatter on the ground My shovel hits wood—a trunk bound in wire Saved from the earth, and saved from the fire She leans over the rim as the lid creaks wide Finding the face she’s been trying to hide The tight rope was nylon, the well was her bed Buried in the dark where the secrets are fed She stops her thrashing, the clarity arrives The hunter and seeker, leading double lives She doesn’t point to the woods or the door She points at the man she was working for The one who assigned her the story that night Who tightened the loop till her vision went white I found the body 'cause I knew where it lay I’m the one who put her in the cold, wet clay The silhouette shatters like ice on the stone Leaving me standing in the garden alone I fill in the hole, I straighten my tie The perfect detective with the perfect lie Just a journalist... Just a shallow well... Just me.
