This House

The house,
this house,
used to be,
filled to brimming,
in happiness,
laughter,
love,
life.
But no longer.

This porch's,
cracked paint,
swollen wood,
missing furniture,
tell of the sorrow,
they tried to escape from.
But couldn't.

The spiders,
and cobwebs,
crawling,
creeping,
up and down,
every dusty wall,
in each musty bedroom,
and hall,
tell of the loneliness,
of abandonment.

The driveway,
covered in deep cracks,
leaves,
dirt,
tell of the forgotten,
the alone,
deep in this forest of misery.

If you visit,
this moaning,
decrepit,
old house,
you'll see,
the shadows,
of the past,
with no future.