The Bleak House

Never being,
never knowing,
only to be given a weather look.
In photo form of anothers chutter,
A tattered view of a bleak house.
Foundations weak,
walls unstable,
weathered wall paper.
Floor boards splintered,
pipes all rusted,
roof leaking, always busted.
I step into this home,
and with tainted images,
I call, now my own.
I look past the sunshine cast,
and toward all but broken glass.
I fail to see, a single flower.
Growing deep within the rumble.
I see a bleak house,
Perhaps if not given,
a photo painted to pursway
I wouldn't see it this dismal way.
A bird perched on the window sill,
chirps sweet song.
And for a moment,
my spirit lifts.
I see the hope, and love in here
amongst the tattered curtians,
and broken door.
Bleak, from bitterness,
from assumption, and tainted thought.
And when I leave,
I wonder, perhaps
I have overlooked
it's simple pleasures,
it's basic strength of character.
It's aging wisdom, and rustic charm.
For anothers tale.
Of a bleak house.