Everywhere, the door’s
slowly come unhinged.
From the floorboards to the ceiling
to the cracks in the trim.
This house which once wasn’t
where grasses were green,
looks less like a home
and more like a dream.
Was this what you envisioned,
when picking the plot?
The land that is dead,
or the bones that now rot.
Everywhere, the trees
weep upon doorsteps.
From the old to the new
are welcome mats unkept.
This dream which once was
where all things begin,
looks more like a nightmare
that never will end.
Was it worth it to build
what you’d one day destroy?
Where the ashes of men
are tilled with the soil.
For now, everywhere
are whispers and screams.
For now, everywhere
no one is home.
Words Of An Average White Male 