The house sits neglected atop an overgrown hill.
Waiting, forever quiet and still.
Her windows reflect the blood red sun.
  Evening says a long goodbye, to no one.
Night wraps the house with coal-black arms,
To once again hide her fading charms.
Cut deep by her eaves the wind wails and moans,
racing round and round this dark house of bones.
Kids crawled on her floors, climbed her stairs,
She held books and beds, tables and chairs.
There were pets and parties, laughter and tears.
Her walls rang with love for so many years.
But weeds and trash now fill her lawn.
Her flowers and shrubs are all dead and gone.
Standing in stark silence, alone and ignored,
Time attacks her every board.
Once grand and bright atop her hill, she slowly falls apart.
Devoid of soul, dark and cold,
sits the house with a broken heart.