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.