This Old House

This old house was young once; lithe and free.

It stood against all odds with fire in its eyes.

But the rock it once stood on has turned to sand.

The bitter hands of winter rending nails from the board,

Like thinned flesh tearing from the bone.

It’s been burglarized and vandalized so much,

There’s nothing left inside.

Its door swings ajar; slack-jawed in its mangled frame.

Its windows boarded up; blind to the outside world.

As the wind moans through the empty house

like a dying man’s hallowed screams.

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