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This Old House
You open the door
And hear a creak.
A longing for what once was,
But never again will be.
No souls lie contained.
Only memories live here.
Do not be afraid,
It’s only a House, dear.
The Old House is lonely.
Look at Her flowered walls.
Together they were family,
You can see by pictured halls.
With creaks She frightens
Because She knows you won’t stay.
Her moaning and pleading
Is what keeps you at bay.
Paint was Her dress;
Now ivy is Her veil.
Her beams once strong arms;
Her skeleton now frail.
Curtains hiding tears,
Sitting so unused.
She lies here in waiting,
Feeling so abused.
She can still feel the steps,
Still hear the laughter.
She still remembers people
When She believed in ever after.
One fateful desire,
Like a hero wanting believed in,
We all have a dream,
And Hers is to be lived in.
She still has a bed,
Yet you close the door.
You could still lay for a while,
Yet from you She hears no more.
The walls, now covered,
Used to be quite the sight.
You should have seen Her then,
Before She was taken by blight.
For the grime outside
Is now within.
Farewell to the beauty
Her soul once lived in.
Walls covered in ivy.
Her paint chipping away.
She is tired of fading,
So, maybe She will fall one day.
If you won’t stay
You might as well get out!
A wall goes crumbling—
It sounds like a shout!
She does not want you here
Though again steps she longs for—
You are but a reminder,
So be here no more!
Copyright ©
Mikeala Dion
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