Entering the house,
the livingroom you see.
Not a thing out of place,
no marks on the furniture.
Another room, is the kitchen,
the appliances are clean.
All shining in the weak sun,
streaming through the windows.
In the garage, sits the car,
silent and still for now.
Only used to enter the traffic,
on the days of work.
The seats are as clean,
as the first day it was bought.
No tears or rips show,
inside this vehicle.
Then the bathroom is next,
towels hung carefully.
Nothing in the drain that would clog,
indeed, the tub shines too.
Then the bedroom at last,
the bed made with care.
Not a ripple on the sheets,
nothing much at all there.
Throughout this house on the walls,
hangs nothing of a nature that tells.
What or if the resident thinks,
or feels or believes.
For in this house,
this horrible place.
What lives there,
lives alone.