Shambles

The old homestead is a shambles, nearly hidden in wild brambles. My mind reveals a happy place that had once held your funny face. The tree swing we once swung upon is fallen rotted and now gone. How many the years, or the miles, have stolen those days of our smiles? I survey the giant oak trees we would climb for a cooling breeze. Now covered in wild woody vines that hold our secrets in confines. All in shambles and forsaken, my early memories shaken. Has life, like home, come to descend from vibrant life to final end?