• The House

    The stairs were all still,
    In their sympathetic silence,
    So were the windows and alcoves,
    Who'd witnessed the violence.
    The crevices and ceilings,
    Even the dull chandelier,
    Did not make a sound,
    In neither pity nor fear.
    And the dust motes did dance,
    In the sun's final ray,
    That slipped through the drapes,
    Giving glimpses of day.
    Yes everything died,
    The house's heart and its soul,
    Falling into a sleep,
    Dreaming of when it was whole.