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The Waiting


I stand outside this house,
waiting.
It is not my home,
nor shall it ever be.
My eyes fall upon the door,
I begin to examine what is left.
The wood is solid,
but worn out.
The paint,
once a bright crimson,
has peeled away.
Left on the door are dull marks,
as if blood has splattered.
An oval shaped window,
fogged,
is as the dead center.
I can see streaks in it's sprayed on frost,
knowing someone clawed at,
and ruined such a beautiful thing.
The door knob is still bright,
golden,
but I don't dare touch.
Even if not locked,
I resist the temptation to enter,
I know less than little of what lies in this sorrowful dwelling.
However I shall forbid myself to enter,
until they let me in.
Time passes by,
the rain spills from the heavens,
the snow glazes me in a icey cloak,
the heat cooks me to a crisp.
I still wait,
in faith that I will be let in this forsaken hold,
and I shall repair it.
I dream of what wonders I shall do for the residence.
Then i wish for one day,
a being will move in with this person,
and will marvel at how grand the area is.
They will be happy,
the person will ease their lonely heart,
and take place in the spot,
I could never fill.