A Broken House Sits Empty
A stretched road cuts through endless plains of fear and hope.
The broken house sits empty. Cracked panes. Fallen shingles. Chipped paint.
Reflections of passersby persist.
The windows are a theater, the movie is sorrowed anger, but who is the viewer?
The funeral procession, a police chase, a hate parade, the family drowned in want. The movie appears to be running on long.
A rusty mailbox nailed to the front door is half cracked open; forever taking mail as if it had a choice.
Final notices, advertisements, a foreclosure notice, a call from the draft.
In the front yard, the tattered remains of a flag flutter on a bent pole in the hopes that someone will one day free it. The silent protests to a country that failed.
Dulled light from a censored sun apprehensively pours into a graffiti-covered garage through scattered bullet holes and fire damage.
Darkened light illuminates a wrecked car that sits on punctured tires and blocks of gold. No insurance. The owners lost and forgotten.
Ripped books scatter the floor of a living room while an unplugged T.V glows. It's playing the movie.
Tilted pictures show a family putting on a facade. Ephemeral friends smile with no teeth and crossed fingers.
A half-eaten meal is still hot on the table. Above, a tarnished cross waits.
The family's jobs are liquidated, like the remains of their closest possessions. The rainy day fund's experienced a hurricane.
In the backyard, a frail woman unknown to world pours her tears and last desires into the hardened dirt of a yard who wants nothing more than to be mowed.
She hopes that maybe a flower will grow.