This is a quiet house.
No music plays here.
No declarations of love are given.
Only the sound of the spinning world,
That will stop the curling ocean with a buzz.
Why expect anything more from it?
The floors creak with memory,
The beams sink and can't hold the weight,
It waits for its dead owner to knock on the door
But that noise never comes.
Its future uncertain, either bulldozer or silence,
Either the strict pound of hammers
Or the crushing blow of nothingness
Despite its years of service
Hugging families in its hands.
It attended it all, yet wasn't seen
Its walls invisible and its heart oak
Aching to find a touch to its wallpaper
Arching to find heaven, as rats run
Garbage is all that it now knows.
It is a quiet house.
No yelling of children in the yard.
Material possessions lie about
Discarded, like youth, once adored
The groan of the floorboads
Asks me to stay for a while and be warmed.
So I do.
I sit and wonder the architecture
Of a dream gone wrong.
Tags: poetry, writing