Sits one in the shadows,
Its brownstone facade broken by neglect,
A dead vine clinging to its eyeless windows.
The broker opens up the padlock,
Freeing the door from its chains.
"Step inside," he beckons. "Explore the possibilities."
Timidly I enter,
As if visiting a graveyard,
This dead husk of a house,
Scarred by fire and water,
Rotting floor boards,
Patches of plaster torn from the walls and ceilings
Exposing its skeleton of joints and sinews,
A staircase to nowhere that I dare not climb.
Suddenly I hear a silent scream louder than the fire engines down the block,
A telltale heart that would have driven even Poe to madness.
"Too much work," I tell the broker. "Let's move on."
July 14, 2015