Downstairs.

Prose, when unborn, stiffens life;
and it quietly unfolds in hindsight.
For in motion, this ocean thats us;
parallel lives, an unbiased stimulus.
As its not spoken to only make sense;
haphazard and in impatient eloquence;
These, in retrospect, spell veneer,
and help remember as if you were still near.
For with these sentences, die all signs,
you, me, and all these stillborn lines.