Foreboding

I stop, just as I opened the door to my home. I stop to look at the cracks on the walls, Like the gnarly veins of some geriatric hand. They a mere sign of age, of foreboding, some harbinger of ultimate failure. I smile and jar the door open. My home makes light of its name, There is no smell of baking bread, no fire place, No patter of claws along wooden floorboards. It is a room, my single bed lengths the right wall. Theres some other small items that sit in the remaining space, secondhand table and chains, a horrid couch spatters with paint, […]