Decayed

Fleeting light streams through the broken window pane. Flickering, as the only movement trying to bring life in vain. The stillness is dense and dust lays thickly as all is grey. The old house utters the softest moan, resisting evident decay. There is an aura of shame, that it has been discovered this way, Yet a distinct welcoming can be felt, its coupled with dismay. The peeling paper on the walls, its former charm subsided, The floorboards dry and cracked, beliefs of safety are misguided. A yearning can be felt, a plea to resurrect it to its former glory. Neglect has cruelly buried many a wonderful forgotten story. The old house stands defiant against the storms the wind and flood. One hundred years ago it was built with sweat, tears and even blood. From its eaves and rafters to its foundations, it was built with pride. A murmur comes from each empty room, heard faintly from deep inside. Tears of its soul are felt. Whispers “rescue and restore me” it implores. Gone are the wonderful stories, as the oncoming bulldozer roars.