Cold House Poem by Not Long Left

the sun is sleeping now,
night has stretched into its shift
sounds of day are silent,
there is no hope to give.

nights broad back tickled,
by the shimmering stars,
but on this road of burnt out cars,
and vacant hollow houses,
i hear no songs of mystery.

there is no change in the contrast,
it burns with bleak intensity,
humming like an out of tune radio,
shattering the promise of peace.

the moss, the rust, the rot, the mould,
these houses, these faces are old
and withered and weakend by
routine.

a hundred faces peer out of windows,
faceless, like a shadow,
there is no sleep tonight.

a road that never ends
is hope,
only our waste meets-
in sewers,

the sun is stirring now,
its fingers can be seen on the horizon,
pulling nights broad back into bed,
be assured it is warmed.

this one, the one i sit upon,
is cold, the street is cold,
the house is cold.

this is not how i thought life would be.