No sound
No creak at the top of the stairs,
No patter of feet in the hallway,
No bargeing the door open
With books in your arms,
No pleading eyes, begging for a story.

No clutter
No tripping on dolls or toys,
No splashing in the bath,
No toothpaste smeared around the basin,
But the brush is still there.
Nothing now, nothing at all.

Outside to noise and litter,
Means nothing to this shell.
Each day is the same as the last,
And tomorrow as well, shall be void and empty,
Hollow.