Back To The Old House

There is an ache and it won’t starve,

whispers scrape against its walls in echoes.

The house takes the empty halls and starts to carve,

lights flicker, on, off, tick, tock.

The old wallpaper cuts and bruises,

but nothing comes out.

The door creaks with vacancy and shuts,

the carpet desperately tries to claw out.

A droplet runs its final course,

the rust on the sink spreads with disdain.

The cracked table desperately fills with remorse,

Paint peels off tearing without restraint.

A fleeting memory of past service,

interrupted by fleeing dust, lifeless on the floor.

Furniture wanders as empty husks, aimless and nervous,

A growth of vines amongst the rush pretend to fill the emptiness.

The house cries and is swallowed by its own voice,

A smell of familiarity fills the atmosphere.

Walls begin to bleed,

Crimson fills the black nothingness.

A flood of certainty engulfs the furniture,

no longer anxious, they begin to run.

Breath of color and beauty sneaks through the door,

The chairs pitter-patter with their steps.

The blood runs dry,

The door slams shut and forces an exhale.

The ache will not starve,

The new wallpaper cuts and bruises.