The Old Homestead

He stood along side

the dusty road,

familiarity bred

contempt for what

he saw across

fields of yellow wheat.

The old house stood

forlorn

abandoned to memories

that refused to be

rebuilt into pleasant

thoughts.

Cedar shakes fall

down into what was

a room, where animosity

and repulsion played games

of love and tenderness.

Hidden amongst the

waving grass

lies a door,

long fallen from its hinges,

to be used no more

as a portal into

what should have been

safety.

Glass mason jars,

stacked in rickety old

cupboards,

carry nothing but dust,

a glimpse of the only hope

this place has for the future.

Haunting creaks and moans

echo up a derelict

staircase, a warning to

anyone who dares enter.

Nothing has changed,

misery abides in darkness.

Nowhere to hide,

no protection from

the elements.

Windows have long been

shattered like the dreams

of the boy who once

called this place

home.

Alas, he stood on the road,

tears on his wind-swept

cheeks. The memory of

running, the thrill

of the escape as

that old house was

engulfed in the flames

of his broken heart.