[the Old Wretched House] Poem by Elio Pears

The old wretched house is set in stone
not a single ghost on sight to behold
not a tree, not a movement, only flowers made of stone.
Waiting for a miracle the poor grumpy metal frame.
What could it be?
The rain had its toll on the fallen star.
Once a place of warmth for the travelers to tell their lies.
Adamant to never leave, a pile of crotchety worn memories.
If what inside is the legacy, then dust must it be.
You should've seen it from the start,
everything is a race to the end after the first line.
A tornado with swords of the truth is coming through
the sky turning to the color of demise
nothing is running, since nothing is there to hide,
except for our rusty torn guitar.
It's time to let go, it's another cliché
the strong is taking over the frail.
Puppetlike, the house has become
dancing in harmony with its murderer
it's a massacre in disguise.
Nothing is calm, everything is destroyed
no tranquility after nor before the storm.
The fear of what was coming,
never stopped disturbing the peace.