decay

every three seconds, the faucet drips. it makes a small plinking sound in the accumulated puddle. there hasn't been anyone to turn it off in a while the weeds are creeping up in the c ra ck  s in the driveway. an automobile sits in the overgrowth beside the disintegrating asphalt, covered by a sun-bleached tarp. the day is sweltering, and the usual reckless chorus of insects is silent. inside the little house, the aging wooden skeleton is starting to sag, almost imperceptibly so. moths had their way with the tapestries long ago, with no regard to the intricacies they detailed to an appreciative eye. up in the attic, mice made their nests with some old stuffed toys, well loved in their day. tucked in a forgotten part of the woods, the little house now waits... waits to be discovered.