Decrepit convalescence
In a dingy house.

Death has waited patient decades -

Descends.
Seeps sickly in.
Sends greedy black tendrils over
Dusty floors, up each and every wall.

It sulks about scowling in the rooms -
Dims light.
Dampens mood.
Casts a funereal pall.

It hates a memory more than anything:
A beautiful day
Safe, and tucked away-
A smooth stone
Warm from fond and frequent touch
In a pocket near to mind.

It covets the good places.

Ghosts balk, unsettled, and step aside 
Where laughter meant
Safety once 

And safety meant home

Curled and lolling now, like a cat
On a patch of the house
Where the sun once cheerfully shone -
Death closes the blinds
Closes all windows.