The Old Ones
At last the old ones have drifted to sleep
and silence descends like rain in the dark rooms.
We move through this house, through its walls
and floors. We caress in its numerous beds.
First you stroke my hair, then I kiss you
in a thousand places. Our heat leaks out everywhere.
The old ones toss a bit, maybe talk a little nonsense
as they dream of us, rising again and again from the ancient
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Steve Klepetar
would be pleased to hear them.