The old house is
juxtaposed upon a cliff
near rushing ocean waves.
The angry froth looks like
foamy mouthwash,
bursting inwards onto rocks
with the transcendent tides.
It’s a cape with rotting siding
that was white one year,
dead one hundred later.
Wood, broken window panes
and chips of old glass
smother the sinking floor.
The sea breeze shakes and
rattles the struggling structure,
makes the house a wind tunnel,
that with its howling blast
flutters the curtains like ghosts.
Its shattered windows
become lost and lonely eyes.
Gray skies and bouts of rain
pound the pouting house,
stir up a storm and swell the sea
like a boiling iron kettle.
The old house loses shingles,
shutters, and oaken doors.
The eyeless face gazes
out through the summer,
winter, autumn, and spring.
Its family is relinquished,
and in only one more dawn
the storm surge will
founder its foundation
and float it away.
Tyler "Hrafn" Noyes