The House That Weeps Her Name
She left, and took the season with her breath,
Now every corner murmurs only death.
The walls have drunk my cries, the floors my fall
And silence is the loudest ghost of all.
The roses rotted black beneath her gaze,
Their thorns remain, to mark the better days.
Her gown still hangs where moonlight dares not tread,
A shroud for all the words I left unsaid.
The portraits weep with eyes that mimic mine,
Condemned to stare through time, unloved, malign.
Each step I take replays her parting sound
A heel, a hush, then absence most profound.
I walk through rooms she left without a glance,
Each one a tomb where echoes dare to dance.
The curtains hang like grieving widows’ veils,
And even air seems thick with whispered tales.
No light beneath these eaves has dared to shine
Since she renounced this house, this heart of mine.
I keep her final note, her shadowed veil
The script of sorrow death itself set pale.
The stairwell groans beneath my every tread,
As though the house still mourns the love we bled.
Each creak, a curse; each step, a dirge unplayed
A hymn for all the vows we once obeyed.
The wind slips through the cracks with aching grace,
As if it seeks the echo of her face.
It curls around her chair, her empty place
And leaves behind the scent of her erase.
She was the storm that broke me into prayer,
A requiem I breathe with each cold air.
Now love lies buried in the earth below
And I, its mourner, dressed in endless snow.
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