Poetry / The House feels empty.

The House feels empty.
        an air of cold-wet silence
        a feeling of conclusions forgone.
The splintering wood underfoot dictates that shoes must always be worn.
Cracked windows view a broken home.
Red paint hides the truth.
Vague metaphors lie on the floor.
        A carpet
        —moth-eaten, frayed around the edges, with abstract designs—
       sleeps beneath a three-legged broken table.
An old orange door grins at the outside world,
        like a finger motioning in,
        but no-one answers it’s call.
This orphan home was once filled with
            laughter, giggles, smiles,
            cries, tears,
            screams.
            Then.
            Nothing.
Now, it just sits, abandoned;
it’s windows watching time tick,
it’s wood, becoming cockroach ridden,
it’s paint peeling—falling like tears—
it’s door, broken now, lets all in.
But none come.
Sleeping silently, The House weeps.