The spellbound house,
That sits upon remorse.
Perpetually decaying; the bottomless basement.
Sinking into sorrow while you forget,
All that you thought you could understand.
Vacant windows spattered with the grime of degradation.
Staring through, consideration of your neighbors' view; deceitful praise.
Lock away those skeletons in your cupboard. Abandon the key.
Hide away those sibylline stowaways that cling to your cryptic cobwebs.
Consign to oblivion the treats they try to teach; your godforsaken sanity.
Spiral with me, down the drain, trying to catch your second string morality.
The thoughts you bear as you wake, can't compare to the disgrace you create.
Each morning you spend counting your calculated calumniation, deciding to cower in your sketchy sheets.
Earthly scenes of fallacious delight, sleeping through the lawless night; your waning aspiration for gospel truth.
It's a slow burn, fanning that flame. Forever playing that dangerous game. Detonation of your dreamy candor.
Will you ever remember the days, snug and summery, that your silver tongue caused relief and not torment?
Vexation clogs the pipes of my love. Yet here you sit, complacent behind these crumbling walls and fading passion.
I can hear those singing ghosts, with their troubling moans, and even they wish you would change; all in vain.
The weeds have overgrown; choking the foundation, splitting it at it's strongest points. Birds of a feather, this dwelling and I.
Where once the hills and trees bloomed with lovely regard, caressing our committal, now only lies barren; a stark and dizzying reminder.
Acknowledging your flaws came easy and swift. Still I sweep the floors and rummage the drawers, searching for that ever missing, shattered piece.
In the corner sat a cardboard box; hollow and looming. I'd open the lid, and resting inside was our forgotten ideals, left to rust.
It did not surprise me, those damaged fantasies. You were always a ticking time bomb; ready to break, and willing to take me down too.
The stars above converge in a cone of light, peeking through an open window. I sigh, my wayward rapture lost to the glow of the night.
The panes in the glass are cracking. The wind is whistling a melancholy melody. The dusty air is suffocating, and I long to feel the sun again.
But through your blatant mendacity, my callow folly in believing you could rise from the ashes, I sit in this empty hall, watching the swallows of our affinity.