The Old House At the End of the Road
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.
Copyright © Merwin Rylaarsdam | Year Posted 2015
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