The house is silent
Empty, in the absence of our laughter and our murmurs
The house is silent
Cold, in the sense where our feet don't shift amongst its tiled floors
The house is silent
Numb, void of our warmth amidst its crevices and folds
The house is silent
Inanimate, in its lay of bricks and stone overlaying our home of love and foolishness
The house is silent
Lost, in the disappearance of its occupants and of their lives they devoted to each other.
YOU ARE READING
Mostly
PoetryA murmur of the land upon which the marching band stomped on in its haunting glory . stories buried for nights that go unnoticed. mostly unnoticed.
