Tucked in the corner between today and the past
A cabin, sits covered in dust
Its roof made of tin and never meant to last
Now held together by rust

Torn from the pages of history's heart
It sits on borrowed time
Just waiting for tomorrow to pick it apart
Crippled, and passed its prime

Its cupboards now bare, but for two rusty cans
That sit all alone on its shelf
Hung by the fireplace, some old pots and pans
Just barely a ghost of itself

Its windows now lost to the heat and the cold
It's door, now broken and bent
Its chimney in pieces, the mud wouldn't hold
Its stones now crumbled and spent

Yesterday's shadow, still cast on the ground
As it waits for the seasons to start
It's dying each day, without making a sound
As it's torn from history's heart