The House

There is a five year old in the kitchen,
Knife pointed to her throat.
A brother up stairs,
Who doesn’t even know.
Two parents gone half of the time,
Work themselves to death,
A grave yard in short sight.
With the passing of time,
It can all be gone.
Kitchen empty, soundless whispers.
Upstairs, vacant and hallow.
The absence of absence will never be missed.
Death will pass with its sorrowed memories.
As the clock ticks,
All life will be swept away.
And wile we may forget,
The house will always remember the pain and pleasure,
That swept threw its very core