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.