FicWad

The floors creak
The doors squeak
The roofs leak
Old.
The wind whistles
The growing thistles
The fabric bristles
Cold.
The flowers don’t grow
The water doesn’t flow
The lights don’t glow
A bad place, I’ve been told,
A place that can’t shine like gold.
Look past the mold,
They got it sold,
And now it’ll shine twofold.