Clay flowerpots lay strewn about,
the solid door shut, and the grout
amidst the brick and plaster walls
is hurried and askew.
The silent ones living there
do not come or go much anywhere,
the light and air commiserate
with old facades, worn and true.
Once, daffodils and daisies roamed
and bloomed in springtime at this home,
now wearing in dilapidation
clay pots all are cast a-strew.
Yet, beauty can come once again
through this threshold and attain
a place the memories are kept
upon a doorway, words brand new.
A poem written in response to Worth a 1000 words prompt by The Haunted Wordsmith. Not a story in a 1000 words, which I think was the intent of the prompt. 🙂