Childhood Home

Morning breaks, through the frost of night
Tread the steps, walk up the concrete path
Touch the door, grey unvarnished wood
Look inside, no-one here, no good

White-washed walls as the sun begins to rise
White machines, stale air and dust inside
Rust falling, plaster cracked on tabletops
Glass untouched, barren hills for miles yet

Something stirs, deep within the cracks
Grey light blurs, but everything remains intact
And upstairs in bedrooms, bones yellow and fade
My family are broken and decayed.