From the front door of my home
     there is not much to see;
Puddles scatter the corrugated soil,
     reflecting back the image of me.

The houses all sit silent and still
     as if they could've been happier someday;
Paint peeling, shedding faded colours;
     I can only watch their slow decay.

The people in them live like spectres
     who I always see but never talk to;
Is it naive that I fear getting to know them?
     (I still like to think they're interesting too.)

The wind whips though the snowy grass,
     speckled white from my house's dead skin;
And I retain the same composure as them,
    trying to mimic the norms of my neighbours just to fit in.

From the front door of my home
     there is not much to see;
I lift my head just to find everything
     reflecting back the image of me.