There is trouble in this old house,
There is trouble in this old house,
tonight.
Dark is closing in and all the windows to the soul,
are wide open,
sleep won't creep in, with no sandman's grit,
can't find a resting place unless it is a grave.
Dark is overhead and covering, hiding all the
wrong
that goes on and on.
There is trouble in this broken down, household
There is trouble in this broken down, household
and it has a hold on me,
and no one else can see,
the paint is peeling and old,
the family failures bought and sold,
their place, this place on Pity's Row.
There once was music, voices to those heavens,
now the squeaks and squeals,
of every metal hinge in the wind,
loudly
echo in the emptiness of this
old house with the past all
covered in black.
The heavens can't be seen
and all has fallen on mean
times.
This old house needs to fall in on itself,
be some picture on a shelf,
in some museum of disrepair.





©DWE082013