House

Sky blue drapes, one hundred years heavy
Covered in dust from Earth's creation
Too much upholstery smothering the present
Smells like wrinkled skin and decay

Light has to fight its way in
(Fresh air gave up years ago)
The past is jewel-laden lampshades and
Powder blue couch in crackling plastic

Books on shelves retain their dignity
Fighting for privacy when pried open
Exhaling their aged breath
Sighing their musty disdain

The house has memories -- almost too heavy,
Over time becoming their own creation
Existing almost outside of the present
Frozen in perpetual decay.