Silence Among the Cracks

The silence grows within the wall’s deep cracks,
the house no longer calls out by name.
Only the dust speaks, slow and subtle,
and every time crumbles into silent memory.
The fissures become roots of a slow forest,
leaves of memory sprouting from the floor.
The ceiling holds an ancient shudder,
while the air widens like a valley of echoes.
No voice, only a murmur through the rooms,
a corridor that breathes, trunks and lichens.
The windows look beyond the day’s last line,
and the house dreams what it could not speak.
Thus grows the silence, verdant and heavy;
each crack a road leading to the past.
When the door gives way, memory enters,
and the house expands, forest of enchanted memories.