Broken steps and mossy walls,
Creepers running amok on a barely there rickety porch,
An abandoned rocking chair, a torn tyre swing,
Curtains of cobwebs,
Shattered windows and doors unhinged,
Greens that look like they used to be bricks once,
A rusty lock struggling valiantly to hold a splintered gate closed,
Dilapidated buildings have stories to tell,
Of lives lived and lost,
Of love once shared...then not,
Tinkling echoes of laughter still ringing through crumbling walls,
The bones of the house remember!
They remember the laughs, they remember the tears,
The warm snuggles, celebrations, joys,
achievements and cheer.
The angry words, the fears,
The ominous smell of antiseptic and sickness,
Heartbreaks, disappointments, failures,
They remember the pitter-patter of babies' footsteps,
And then the heavy, guilty shuffling of adult feet, leaving that very home for good,
Only to return as guests...first often...then sometimes...then even less.
Ruins!! I believe, is what they're called....
If only they could talk,
The world would hear of ugliness...
and love...more raw and unfiltered,
Secrets far more undiluted, unimagined,
Than civilized society is ready for.
Because dilapidated homes know stories,
That no author ever could!
If only they began to share,
Their many 'once upon a times...'
Writers and artists,
Film-makers and story-tellers,
Would all find themselves redundant!