Washed?

The fire burned in the foyer,
Beside the trembling soul.
The char sifted through the ocean,
And lighted the room, but not her heart.
The dinner grew cold,
Like cheeks once rosy, now pale.
The wind blew through the window.

A chill was sent down the flame,
And let loose the fire tame.
And all was burnt except the soul,
Beside the cooling mound of coal.
So she walks beside the dust,
Like all her shattered, misled trust.
Afar from pain, she lies to rest.
Somewhere in the seared, singed mess.

One wall stood among the ruins.
The wind still blowing through the open window.

Nothing else remained.

For nothing else mattered.

Panic?

There's a maniac in the box,
Creeping out in the silent dusk.
Slithering, withering, near a trunk.
Underneath the silent crockery of celestial dinners.

Oh and all you see is not the same.

Upon your podium, you are blind.
Under the carpet on your floor.
There are things, there are things you don't like.
Harp all you like, your ideas are vague.

Oh and all you see is not the same.

You're welcome here.
Thank you.
Goodnight.