The ash falls gently onto silent grass
And boards long scarred by old misuse and heat.
Up steps that creak, passed shattered shards of glass,
Alone, the ash rests in a broken seat.

It lingers in a doorway still ajar
In hope of callers who will never come
Then brushes softly by the blackened bar
That once could boast of finest wine and rum.

It paints the once-bright walls with dusty gray.
It blankets a forgotten, broken doll.
It hides away the scars of charred decay.
It shelters ruined bookshelves in its pall.

This wreckage of a heart and home now rests
With memories and ash its only guests.