The house is dying.
Water leaks in,
Down into the walls,
Causing slow decay.
Withering cold air currents
Slip in through cracks.
In her brick and mortar skin,
Lie the ghosts of the dead
Trying to find rest,
But seeing only empty corners.
In the morning light,
The house is almost lovely,
Her bricks a delicious ginger.
But by midday
The fade in the shutters,
Cracks in the glass,
Crumbling mortar,
All the anonymous wounds,
Are suddenly revealed.
Like a slow old horse,
Her center sags,
Bones weakened by time
And overuse.
Her end is coming,
But she longs to be full
Just one last time,
Before the monsters,
Puffing their sick black smoke,
Tear her to shreds.
About the Creator
Mack Devlin
Writer, educator, and follower of Christ. Passionate about social justice. Living with a disability has taught me that knowledge is strength.
We are curators of emotions, explorers of the human psyche, and custodians of the narrative.
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