The Empty House. Poem by Perfection Is Flawed

I
and
It is silent.

II
Wind, she dances by the windows
that no one
looks through.

Shuttered, curtained, closed
to the World outside.

III
Doors locked,
the key
buried beneath the sand, the gravel, the dirt,

deep,
drowning,

in the Earth that silences
everything.

Metallic sharpness,
lost in the Darkness

of yesterdays and yesteryears.

Gone,
with no one to find her.

The door remains
unopened.

IV
It reaches for the sky,

vessel that brings ashes
to the heavens.

Now left for the cobwebs
to devour,
to cover in all selfishness.

Choked,
the chimney ceases
breathing smoke.

Empty,
All that is no longer

there.

V
Caged
like an old Lion,

Silent, without so much
a sound.

Unmoving, Unseeing,
Unreal.

Watching without Seeing
Listening without Hearing

Dead,
yet Alive.

Eyes clouded,
Windows undusted and
blurred.

a Fence that surrounds
this emptiness.

VI
this is the Empty House
where the nobodies and no/ones live.

Silence, in all that is surreal,

the Shadows dance
the Echoes sing.