The house is.

An ancient house without a name,
do you know who lives there?

The house is not.

A chimerical vision in someone’s
mind, the old house is invisible.

Inside the stranger’s dream,
the house is,

without words,
beyond our world,

&
buried in the deep snow of his brain,

the house comes into being.

Outside,
the house is not.

Who lives there?

the labyrinth of the night whispers
into the shell of my secret haven,

where I hide from the sphere of sadness.

Not I, a voiceless voice ensconced in my
eerie emptiness shrieks,

not in the House of Non-Existence.

Only the dead live there,
I proclaim defiantly in my private wasteland,

a whirligig whirling around nowhere.

Yet perhaps, I protest too much, in my
Shakespearian monologue,

for I hear the howling coming forth from the

maw of the Chimera,
interminable ululations inside the ancient
mansion.

The House of Non-Existence is vast,
with room enough for the dead

&
other vanishing beings,

enough for a queue of sufferers spanning the

swirling universe,
&

for me too