The house that forgot how to stand

There is a house at the end of a street,

with shutters drawn like tired eyes shut tight.

It's walks once spoke in warmth and light-

now, onlt exhoes live there, and the night.

Its roof sags low, like a bowed-down head,

the chimney coughs dust, its hearth long dead.

Vines have crept like memories through the halls,

splitting the paint like unresolved calls.

Inside, each room holds breathless air,

a silence strained with heavy care.

The mirrors hang, ashamed to see

what's left of who they used to be.

In the office, hope is a broken chair,

tucked in the corner, stripped and bare

it groans if you sit- then lets you fall.

No one gets up. No one calls.

The clock in the hallway lost its time

years ago- it just forgot to chime.

Now, minutes leak through every crack,

never forward, never back.

The stairs don't lead, they only lean,

like thoughts too tired to intervene.

Each step a question with no reply

each creak a whisper- why not try?

In the attic, boxed up dreams decay,

mildewed by words no one could say.

A rope lies coiled beneath a beam,

half-remembered from a dream.

But outside, the sky keeps spilling blue,

even when no one's there to view.

Even when shutters forgot to rise,

and windows close against the skies.

Some say the house could be saved-

new beams, new paint, the rot repaved.

Yet it's hard to build when all you feel

is hollow wood and rusted steel.

Still, if one light flickered in the hall,

if one small voice could brave the call-

perhaps the house might learn again

to open its eyes, to let day in.

@lost_elegy