The House

I went again to the house last night,

and gazed upon the ruined site.

With windows cracked and paper torn,

peeling paintwork tired, forlorn.

The years have bared it's very soul,

And left but dust to fill the hole.

Where happiness and childhood screams,

once filled a home of summer's dreams.

 The walls of crumbling sun bleached stone,

stand as sentinels alone,

defending echoes of joy long passed,

built with hope, which could never last.

The swinging wire without the light,

that kept away the scary night.

Curtains torn and ripped with age,

flap in winds that turned my page.

The dirty dusty heap of rags.

A house, a home, a sad visage.

No longer will I visit here,

I refuse to spare another tear.

But ever in my memory’s eye,

I’ll carry home with you and I.