Hell is an empty house.
That's what the sign said, dangling crookedly from a spindly hook.
Hell is an empty house.
Words painted in white on black boards; the handwriting shaky.
The words reverberate through the emptiness spoken by ghosts.
Hell is an empty house.
Drifting through, colors muted by the darkness, words that smell.
Can words have a smell? A taste bitter enough to make you wince?
The ghosts avoid that part of the house, afraid of the truth.
Hell is an empty house.
And all that remains to me is the sign that you made, it mocks me.
I watch it from the fireplace, watch as a breeze makes it sway.
You left me here to stare at the madness of it, the emptiness of it.
And all that remains of me is that sign, the sign you once loved me.
Hell is an empty house.
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