The car rusts slowly in the front yard,
suspended on cinder blocks.
The hedge is overgrown,
grass hiding childrens toys at waist length.
The white picket fence has all but rotted away,
mushrooms sprouting from the remains.
The paint of the house has peeled,
cheery yellow paint lying in flakes.
The windows are gone,
shattered, popped from the frames.
Within the house,
the carpets have molded.
And the drywall slowly crumbles to dust.
Holes in the roof have flooded the basement,
brackish water, now the home of frogs and toads.
Empty furniture lies scattered throughout the house,
bedrooms, the homes of mice.
The kitchen is dormant,
food in the cupboards and fridge long gone,
eaten away by a lack of power and microbes.
And in the living room, the final statement,
Withered bones and dried up tissues – resting in an armchair.
Original occupant snoozing in front of the dusty T.V. forever more.
Forever more.
