Somewhere, there is a house upon a hilltop
that still has the shakes
of life that once lived within it.
Shivering with memories
of children's feet pounding
through the halls as they played.
They were the blood racing through its veins.

Yet all races must come to an end.

Now the house is nothing more
than a reminder of the past
that's unsteady; it shakes
like hands that have held too much.
The house is nothing more
than gaping windows, knocked out doors
and peeling paint;
that shudders in the terrible breeze.