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The Old House at the End of the Road

The old house stood as a silent token
of days long past and times unspoken; 
	a memory of what used to be. 
Forlorn and old it stood its ground; 
but around its walls are haunting sounds
	amid the rotting gray debris. 

The laughter’s silent party noise
is missing with the party boys
	and girls in fancy good-time dress,
no longer gracing rooms and halls
or sweet sixteen and party balls; 
	gone, all but memory’s sweet caress. 

The grass is dead around the edges, 
and holes are left where once grew hedges
	near by the picket fence now gone; 
the leafless tree will stand its guard
until there are no steps or yard,
	and darkness falls with western sun. 

I saw that house in its glory days
when kissed by sun and golden rays, 
	but it has fallen on hard times now. 
Gone are the occupant’s rigid dreams
all but a memory, or so it seems,
	but it will live again somehow. 

It lives again in hearts and minds
of those who lived there and their kind; 
	who live and love and do their best
to live the way life ought to be
with carefree grace beneath the tree
	to stand against time’s onward quest.

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