Braided creepers festoon its ghosted walls
Whilst translucent panes reveal rusted lattice,
Termite-riddled framework and moth-eaten drapes.
Its once ivory composition is spider-cracked hither and thither,
Its cracks, though finger-deep, are just not deep enough
To admit a shaft from the sky’s luminaire.
Though with the capacity to contain, it contains
Naught, save for brass and bronze bric-a-brac with a diluted shine
Sitting in shambles on stale blue shelves.
This house in form has a formless twin –
A soul shaded from Virtue’s light,
Victim of neglect, empty and inoculated from brightness,
It denies itself dawn to remain in eternal night.