Empty house

An empty house doesn't need windows,
with no one looking out of them,
and no one looking in.

A knocker on a non-existant door,
an overused doorbell that chimes every hour.

A runaway carpet running down a hall,
but leading nowhere.

Scraps of paper scattered on the bedroom floor,
flittering with ominous delight,
as a breeze wafts through an open window.
Truth is,
it's shut.

The smell of dust in the kitchen.
That's not right,
is it?

A chill radiating from the gloomy fireplace.
That's not right either.

A sense of unfinishedness,
creaking from the floorboards,
and rattling up the faded walls.
I get the feeling they used to be green.

So did the garden,
now a confusion of tangled weeds,
and brown grass,
and the stale smell of rotting.

This house isn't empty,
it's dead,
no matter how many windows there are.