The Empty House of the Heart

Shingles drift toward waiting gutters
In their quiet quest for escape.
Paint peels and curls from wood
As if trying to distance its self
From the unpalatable.
Windows wear the fabric of ancient dust,
Attempting to cover their selves
From an ever-present anguish.
Grass and weeds arise around its structure,
Longing to blot out the curiosity of passersby.

Inside, the patters of bare feet
And echoes of laughter
Have long succumbed to a somber silence.
Aromas of apple pies and cherry blossoms
Have been replaced by the stench of empty eons.
A rocking chair, ceased in its creaking gracious ease,
Idly groans in despair to live again.
Walls bear the lathe of their souls through cracked mortar,
Quietly weeping to the absence of intimate,
Whispered, confessions between lovers.