Time for old dialects

The house is devoid of ghosts
This sets me on edge
It’s this in-between where all the damage is done
Where I’m still aware
Aware of everyone else
Of the stillness of the house devoid of ghosts
I muse; my dialect is lost on us
Most likely misinterpreted
I walk from the bathroom to my bedroom, naked
Stand there on freshly cleaned floor
The momentum is in the earth
Vibrating through transmission to the floor of the second storey
I’m carried
Or I myself propel

Time for old languages, old dialects
Time for bloodless violence
All the faces change
I’m convinced that on the other side the names are the same
But the players, the actors are all different
Though I may be talking about myself