The Old Places

I've been in this place before
Many years ago.
I remember.

The old places
Have an ochre hue
Like a photograph
Left in the sun.
Hard edges
Washed out.

Now

Words are nothing,
Paltry stabs at growing silence.
The deep guttural ache
Where the mind itself
Is the knife which scrapes.
There is no romance here.
There is nothing.
There is nothing.
There is no human being.
No one to type these words,
Only the memory,
Almost unnoticed.

These places have never stopped visiting me.
They make sure I fail,
They watch,
Wait for me to give in
Or become transformed
Into one of the old places.