Hothe

Through the gap in my heavy curtains,
Halved by the plastic window frame,
I can see that now unused place,
The blue brick bottom standing, surrounded
By broken or breaking bike stands, dull grey
In the quickly fading day.

Just underneath the cracking windowsills,
The blue suddenly lightens, and on this outside landing,
What was once white is founded, but in the corners
Of the house, the door set in a obelisk jutting out
From that otherwise typical double L shaped build,
Where once loud conversations would have sounded,
The floorboards trembling and the carpets tutting,
But now through the flimsy glass panes, the dust and musk
Handing each other whispers of the past, as the
Vague sunlight illuminates their distilled exchange, still
The wooden sashes, like rotting hot cross buns,
Yellowing like the apron, crippled as if branded
By time's age-old lashes, the muntin seems old and deranged,
As the darkened reflection inside plays on my mind,
Whispered nothings banded together, this charmbracelet
Of this early winter weather, worn and worn out
Now disbanded.

The upper continues until the roof, once so shy,
But now too decrepit to be anything actively. There
Still are some pyramid like prisms, if they can exist,
Like carelessly added on parts and ways of living, casually ripped,
Casually not free, casually not discerning,
Towards other homes, although to be
Fair those shapely things they were always there,
The folded peaks of these mini-tops, like canopies of
The most-able trees, green not with health, but perhaps with
Moss and rot, and in the night the creaking ceilings reach my ears
Like the small, simple, goodbye shake of children's hands
When they do not yet understand, that something,
Which when gone leaves you with an empty burning, that something is
Leaving, and never returning.

There is a light on, above the entrance.
It must have been placed there quite recently,
It's metallic mesh cage and plastic coating seem naked
Amongst the forlorn walls. Too clean, yet still covered
With layers upon layers of dirt.
There is no path to the front door,
No indication as to where the start is,
I would loathe to live on those floors,
Hothe is not where the heart is.