The darkened house lay still,
Unmoved by time and by tragedy.
Musty odors choke every room,
Dusty table-tops cry out gloom.
Antique remnants of ancient lives,
That once lived.
Lived but once.
Until the trespassing of their domain.
Transmitting every ounce of blame,
To whomever steps inside the house,
That lay still quietly with innocence.
Its prison qualities are hidden,
Until the right ones are smitten,
Enough to move on in.
Then the darkened house grows darker,
They don’t like guests,
Even if they are guests,
Not that anyone ever argued,
Or lived to tell the tale.
The house is no longer for sale.
Once again, it’s occupied,
With someone new dusting off its chairs,
Mopping its floors, polishing the brass,
That adds luster to lives.
But not their lives.
Because they live inside the house,
The darkened house that’s still,
They have always resided there,
And if you move in, they don’t care.
For you just trespassed on their domain,
And never even announced your name.
You should have checked the walls.
If you paid attention, you would have seen them,
But instead all you’ll see
Is nothing.

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