poetry

The Empty House

Empty House

Empty House

The silence once golden buzzes in my ears,
Greater than the noise of modern life,
Of cars, of horns, of human screams,
Of all the strife that life demands.
An empty house is undecorated and forlorn.
Without the solace of picture or word,
The house is large and unexplored
Or small and unadorned.
What gathers here is nothing,
No record, no dust, or evidence.
All is lost among the mute.
Art fades upon the walls.
Books crumble when longingly touched.
No life or love or remembering or forgetting
Happens among the barren walls and empty space.
Only one end comes calling,
Barely heard and soon forgotten.
No one knew, no one acknowledged
The open hand or the spoken question
In the house of only one,
The house of nothingness.

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