In death's dulled aftermath
weeps the house

none sees its tears
for the one it held within
for many years

who it nurtured in walled comfort
inducing a sense of permanence

till last night under the stars
came to fetch him the hearse

and he left without caring a fig
in haste for the final benediction
and the burning logs

feigning a peace

as if he wouldn't miss
and not be missed
under the sun
by anyone.

One man less
the house too would heal.

Death is not a big deal.