The key hung in the lock,
A talisman of days long past.
Windows at half mast,
Curtains drab and dusty wave.
A welcome unacknowledged,
As the sun dipped its head low.
High-pitched hum escaping,
White noise demanding its due.
A settee gathering dust,
The lone spectator to the show.
Roaches crawl across countertop,
Lone occupants unafraid.
Dried remains encrusting porcelain,
As the back door closes with a bang.
Clothesline spins slow revolutions,
Sun bleached ghosts dance.
A murder of crowds lifts,
From fields of trampled crops.
As the Autumn breeze gusts,
Ants hoarding fetid flesh,
For the darkness to come.
© NopeNotPam
nope, not pam 
Oh this is quite stark and dark. Your take is always different Deb. Thanks for joining in with this awesome poem.
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i was a bit worried that it was too dark, but it just kind of fit.
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It does. I love the varied perspectives of all the participants. Thanks again
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Ooh where has everyone gone???…. Great story, so intriguing. KL ❤
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The Zombie Apocalypse?
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1. What I see in the picture is someone inviting intruders!
2. Your poem is indeed dark in a sad sort of way. Retrospectives of decaying homes always make me sad.
3. When you say “murder of crowds,” do you mean crows?
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It is, and yes I do. I need to stop doing these blogs my morning break 🙄
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Darkly intriguing. I like this a lot. It conjures up so many potentially unpleasant possibilities. Good one, Deb!
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Thanks Chris, I was very hungry when I wrote it ☹️
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😲🤭
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