The unquiet house

It is an unquiet house -
in the deathly stillness no-one
sleeps, black mould creeps
up the walls and year-on-year
the skirting boards absorb the
dust until they become grey
and gappy

the black beams press
down on watching eyes
and the curtain rails
sag with tiredness

outside in a dull dawn
the walls quietly crumble away
as if another winter
would bear them down

the thin pale children wander
lost about the rooms and
don't eat enough, the plates
are small, no other children
call and all is waiting
for something to happen, to

begin, take them away to a brighter
day - I can't wait for our
car run to take us home

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