Senility

This poem is loosely based on my visit to my great-gran when she was a hundred years old. She died shortly after, just before her next birthday.

Senility

There is a house I know, an old withered face.
I once went inside, it was full of memory, paintings and picture adorned walls and light filtered through open windows. But now it is only dark, memories smeared by damp and rot, windows blacked out by dust.
Upstairs the once bustling bedrooms are silent, pieces of plaster peeling off walls. Further up still lies the attic, exposed by a sunken roof. Empty, apart from shattered roof-tiles and rotten beams. When it rains fast tears fall from broken gutters, and saliva drips.
It is gone now, I miss it.