This house now vacant,
Empty and silent.
Except for ghostly infestations,
And haunting memories of its inhabitants.
Echoes of noisy bickerings,
And screeches of laughter still lingering.
Silent footsteps still echoing,
And eerie silence following.
And whispered conversations,
And hushing sounds of secret discussions.
And blurred outlines of people,
Walking in and out the doors hanging on their hinges.
And the sound of water dripping,
Carpets dampened with fleece and moss infesting.
Dead, musty air, an echo of life once held inside.
Dead and withering plants outside,
Unwatered, and wilted dry.
Windows covered in decades worth of grime,
Dead moth eaten curtains hanging since their early times,
Once fancy wooden furniture, now home to termites.
Plush old sofas covered in layers of dust and dead mice.
And except for a few spiders and lizards, there is no sign of life.
Forever held in darkness, not a ray of light reaches inside,
Surrounded by tall forest trees, blocking any view of sunrise.
They asked me of tragic, depressing truths of life,
I thought melancholic abandoned homes would suffice.