A house is more
than brick , wood and motar
Life resides inside the structure

Every house has its bones
that become broken
by time
and then they are gone

You can feel the past that's speaking
The laughter , chatter and the weeping

Everyone says do not go
There's nothing there
but the pain you know

[Oh! the memories that were made . . .
when they lowered you into the grave . . .]

Now these days the birds sing and play
The new blue sky takes my breath away

Still I'm sadden
The loss immense
Even gone the picket fense

Every house that once was home
made of brick , motar , wood or stone

Becomes a cenotaph to the memories made . . .
to the past that's missing . . To those through enduring
. . . stayed . . .