The Weeping Willow

A cottage on the prairie of red brick and clay,
My home, my sandbox, my fort of play
My forlorn crevice of secrets untold,
The ghosts of my past, ghastly and cold,

Eerie rooms now, air thick with dust,
Paint chipping, nails laden with rust,
A crack in the wall, skeletons in the store,
The laughters of life buried deep in its core,

Like a long forgotten tradition it doth dwell,
The lingering sense of failure and its musty smell,
The vermin scurry in a pile of decay,
The roof hung low with a saddening dismay,

The grass grown tall, crickets chirp through night,
A once cosy retreat, now a painful sight,
And as much as I fear, this dark recluse,
Sees me as i see it, a chronic excuse.
Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

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