a lone grey building
stands, colossal,
worn with age.
wood, soft, rotting,
covered in rusted metal.
two balconies,
no rails, no support.
any minute
crashing down.
a door faces the ocean.
wood faded from crashing waves,
stained from sea mist,
salt lines trace pictures,
scent of seaweed all around.
a wooden path leads to a door.
sun bleached, wind battered.
hinges loose and in
desperate need of oil.
still, it opens.
splintered floor.
boxes of books, skulls,
glass buoys, rotting clothing.
an old Singer washer,
plugged into a generator
covered in dust and webs.
every corner full
with the little things
that life alone in the wilderness
require.
it echoes with emptiness.
nine rooms, two stories.
a slaughter pit,
a garage,
a two bedroom upstairs,
a one bedroom downstairs.
joined by one stair.
long and uncertain,
still somehow
managing to bear weight.
imperfect yet full,
the house still stands.
a physical tomb
of perfect memories,
that leave a child empty.
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