The Dead

The house lies dormant,

One life lingers alone,
Chained by a heartbeat
That ceased to exist long ago.

Eerie whispers drift through the stale air
As a presence
Grips onto the sole living,
In bitterness of death.

Storms of tumultuous hatred
At the core of nothing
Ripen into a disease
That coats and deteriorates
What's left
Of what's already broken.

The still beating heart
Grows cold in time;
And the house's stillness and its past
Wage war
Over the jealousy of the dead.