the house, it stands, with it's tumbling walls
almost diseased with something one cannot name
for the rhythm of the house beats like thunder
and never stops, for someone is to blame

the water drips from a leak imposed into the roof
dissolving all of the soggy frames and pictures
those which will surely freeze and crack
when the world outside turns bitter and it becomes winter

the walls that were red have faded to grey
only a dead remnant of the dauntless fire
leaving only weakened plaster
as the house's void attire

as winter comes with snow and ice
the walls become slick with an invisible frost
and the cracks will widen just to fall apart
any hope of redemption being silent and lost

so a small boy with a pointed face and bright eyes
tries to revive the house with love and planted flowers
but they faded to nothing like everything else
leaving merely a crumbling and powerless tower

and inside the tower, set upon a desk
suspended in blood in a lonely jar
was all that was left of the girl and her house
the ever-beating carcass of her heart