Standing still, close your eyes and listen.
Even the wind has left. Can you feel them,
Forgotten thrills, their homes bereft?
Dunes of dust in every surface
Like snowy mountaintops, the all-consuming rust
Presiding over from the rain,
Contorted mushrooms on the wane
Sprouting from the mold like icicles.
And the plaster falls
On barren floors behind the creaky doors,
Forlorn ivy-cladded walls that harbor
Memories wasted in the ether.
Reverberating specters that will someday be us,
Haunting the hallways where we walked
And the rooms where we slept,
Where the bedbugs multiply.