At The End of the Road
At the end of a well known road
it sits in black and white,
its kindred gloss the sides
in chromatic glory.
An empty house its once
verdant pride now lies arid, bare, and bitter.
Sun bleached white, sightless
skull staring out at life beyond its border,
while dim memories ghost through
hazy halls a shutter opens and closes with the wind,
beating a Steady staccato of loneliness.
An old tire hangs dolefully from a stark
tree limb, the faint laughter of children floats over the fence.
Inky clouds gather and the sky growls.
The decaying wind howls through the yard,
through the old cracks,
and ruffles the vulture’s feathers,
perched above, eye gleaming.
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