James
I left a week later, and I saw the old house;
An enfeebled decrepit domicile,
As quiet as a mouse.
The tall oak hung,
Anemic and fray,
The leaves that it held were withered and grey.
On a branch a rope hung,
Where I would swing when I was young,
A happy place, full of memory,
Was now a saddened place, of saddened imagery.
And the thought of never seeing James again,
Brought me tears, despair and pain.
But the saddest thing of all;
Was knowing it would happen again.
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