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At the end of the street, the quiet house stands. The walls are hollow, the paint over it chipped. Lightning stretches across a sky botched with ink. Unopened windows, age-old dust on glass, unmoving. A flutter up in the attic, a crow sits in solitude.
Soft remnants echo through the holes in the walls: screeching despair. Light once spirited the cold corridors, the smell of varnished wood leaped where lonesome footprints now stand embedded in grey dust. A manifestation of fear, an embodiment of sleepless agony. The floor creaks, a crawling presence etched into the skeleton of this address, the black rain an endless tragedy.
The door is rusty and jammed, no one comes or goes. The earth beneath the wrecked abode crumbles, slowly. Tarnished soul, caging body. Wailing sirens in shadows. Flutter up in the attic, the crow sits in solitude.
image: Wasim Majeed (wasim_majeed on instagram), untitled, 2018.
