I step inside and almost have
To carve my way through dust
Stagnant in the air around me.
It fills every room
With an earthy scent
Accompanied by
The hollow echo of each step I take
In melody with the creak
Of floorboards that moan with age.
This place has been untouched
Since its last occupant left
Nothing misplaced
As they took nothing with them.
Mildew and musk invade my senses
Like heavy perfume
As I force open an old decaying chest
Found in the center of what should have been
The room filled with the most love-the family room.
Its contents preserved like ancient artifacts
Faded piles of yarn
Unfinished projects of browns and mottled black
Unkept and crazy
tangled in a heap, unorganized.
My curiosity peaked,
I delve deeper into the room
Investigate to find
No pictures on the walls.
Figurine children
Made of porcelain
Are placed on the mantle.
Most chipped, broken, or faded
Coated in more dust and grime,
Cold to the touch.
Fitting as the air in the house
Grows frigid around me.
Suddenly I feel as empty
As this place must have been
To a woman with no family.
Only porcelain and yarn
to keep her company
As her bones aged
And began to complain of the crisp air.
No one to notice
As her skin became a speckled pattern
That cracked and dulled.
My search reveals
No warmth,
No love;
Just a lonely, empty house.