Each house has a story.
And some might have two.
But I don’t mean two levels
Or what lives in the walls
Because house walls are dead.
So’s a floor and a ceiling.
The story is who will
Move in or move out.
A home’s a way station
And the story’s about
A lonely old man.
A big family that breaks up.
Could not pay the mortgage.
An investor then flips it
The house has been sold
And then passing time tips it
From fortune to backslide.
The district’s run down.
Could be an old house
On the wrong side of town.
When it’s empty of life
It becomes like a quarry
That scavengers pillage
For another one’s story.
Floorboards and molding.
Ripped out. End up elsewhere.
Old wood turns to rot.
The old paint, it’s been peeling.
I’m not in that place
Yet I’m getting a feeling
That I’m that old man
In a big empty house.
When the daylight dies down
And I turn on the lights
I see walls, floors and windows.
A priest whispers last rites.
Because life goes on elsewhere.
This space only echoes
The loan has been paid
All the history’s been made.
CUL-DE-SAC 