A white house, not ornate, nor beautiful,
Just a simple little white house.
It stood like a crippled man,
Leaning on its last leg;
The familiar smell of
Wet leaves, old dust, and spirits lingered without;
The household is now just a memory
With children running under motherly feet,
And father yelling at mother and children,
Endless rain rotting away the exterior.
The sounds of the house scattered across the neighborhood.
It was not of cheerful nor innocent,
But rather, muffled cries in pillows
And screams of ruination.
Then it happened; like the man,
The heart of the house collapsed to pieces.
The sight, also just a memory,
Was that of glass and wood, and spirits,
Both holy and sinful.