The house of GONE

 That old house at the end of wedgehall street. It used to be a small den for the local politicians to collude on regional affairs including votes.
No one lives there now, the owners keep the lights on because there are still offers, through the front door- you can see a tall narrow coffee table infront of the guard rail on the stairs. There´s a thing a slender glass vase sitting on it, with a long dried brown rose poking out.

My mother approaches and investigates the house
It is dusk she looks around there is nowhere else
Like a moth to the light her awareness melts
In she walks as if it were where she dwelt

Blue cold light of dusk and encantations from the ghosts of monks. Begging the light to extend time just another minute. And the homely comfortable looking inside of the house appeared even more inviting.
Once my mother had disappeared, my brother came strolling up to the porch. Again without reservation opened the glass frame front door that looked in toward the rusty rose in that vase.

He achieved much he had beliefs they were contributed as sculptures
In the shadow of midday which was the only time he postured
In midday light no mistakes or out of shape areas were exposed
He always saw the slender vase never the dead brown rose

So he too went in and disappeared before he reached the stairs. The vase subtle sparkle, or weak reflection blinked, laughing at having brought in two outside visitors, before nightfall.
At this point the day was almost dark and the inside of the house was emiting the yellow relaxing light with almost a tinge of orange. You could look inside and feel comfort in your stomach. A plenitude of homely emotions.

The hour has struck darkness is falling about my person
I must enter this dead end house before it all worsens
I enter the door blinded by yellow orange intensified notes 
instead of a glow it´s chipped paint through a hundred coats

It´s an extinguishing of my true identity. The chipped paint is the understanding of myself. It is being chipped off the wall´s of the entity I thought myself to be. Whispers come softly at first, then in dreadful deafening screams... Saying... Life is hoax, Life is a hoax. The image of the dead rose now follows my vision as I walk through the house, not a human just a ghost, one that could invade any living creature. But the rose wasn´t alive. it was crispy and rusted. preserved like a relic, a reminder of the temporary nature of things.

The voice kicked in and I froze, lost the strength to climb the stairs 
Life is a cosmic prank, a hoax, duped by your hopes and fears
You believed it most when you were pretending not to care
Losing the impression of yourself just too much to bear