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?
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