Old Man Burning

Theres a fire that burns inside a house
made of bricks that groan and sigh
as they lay atop one another.
The windows reflect images
of utter discontent much like
mirrors during a funeral procession.

The doors of every room moan
as they swing to let you see whats inside;
only crumpled writings, faded photos, broken toys
and a dead cat. The paintings that once
decorated these rooms fell broken
to the floor. Layers of paint peeling off the canvas
like Flowers once adorned the window sill.
Now their petals lay dried and
shriveled up on the filthy carpet

In the kitchen the sink is filled with dirty dishes
And on the table sits a steak that rotted long ago,
filling the room with a pungent stench. Of death,
perhaps.

Theres an old man beside the fire
Whom no one would bother
He sits in his wooden chair
Rocking back and forth.
Watching, waiting.
For his days are numbered.

Where did it all go?
The clock sprouted feet and
marched out the front door.
Not even bothering to bid farewell.
All thats left is this flame
It burns ever so brightly

The old man closes his eyes
Utters one last word
Hoping someone will hear his final plea
As it echoes throughout the house
Up through the chimney
Out into the streets.

But no one will listen

As his house catches fire.
Everything around him burns
For the duration of the night.
So too does his body.
His body burns and his ashes and
those of everything he once possessed
Elevate towards the stars.