Desolation

I have known the exposed desolation of white walls, Dripping with fresh paint, fumes suffocating, All the plain pre-packaged promises of empty boxes, Filling with pictures, and pillows, and infinite keepsakes, Perpetual ripping of tape and cardboard, barbaric, Stumbling over piles of junk and mountains of clothes, Empty closet, bookshelf barren except for the cloud of grey Dust that covers everything, coughing from the smell of it. And I have known the sorrow of torn down posters, Loneliness of a freshly washed carpet, a newly stripped bed, Slamming of dresser drawers, now empty of their guts, Bottomless garbage bags, deformed cable ties, a circus of trash, A crisp clean room, only ghosts dare to linger.