Deserted houses invoke a fascination,
The mind in love with the inexplicable,
Seek out rooms for ingenious exploration
Of the contours of delegated extroversion.
Removing the cloak hiding the inside,
Find the old clock hung on the gray wall
Time over and arms stuck of old age
Antiquated furniture burnished in the psyche.
Obsolete thoughts of the ordinary
Going up staircase holding the archaic
Banisters supporting fragile men and women
Paintings of who adorn the walls of introversion.
The old newspapers stacked like a pillar of Times
The tattered books on shelves of derangement
And the dining table helping no food for thought
The fireplaces burning desires, sighing and moaning
No room for any more surmises, the languid mind
Fall in to a deep slumber in one of the bedrooms
On a well laid out bed of red roses still fragrant.