Let me show you to that burrowed house
up on the hill, it's ages old!
Come, let us shuffle through its memories
and see what is to unfold.

Faded are the shingles
with windows yellowed and stale,
through overexposure to the sun
all of the paint is flecked and pale.

Tattered is the rosy wallpaper
stained are the wooden floors,
and all of the hardened, crusty carpets
are discolored with ancient molds.

Winds howl through the hallways
yet are too damp in the midst of heat,
not to mention winters' frigidness seeping in
not one table can stand, their legs too weak.

Grass has sprung up through the floorboards
pipes are rusted and they leak.
Every bulb is dead, the curtains are shreds;
both groupings are now just clouded and meek.

But glance upon these remains once more,
see what they have to hide-
for not until you know there's gold
would you look for a treasured chest to peek inside.

All lights and curtains are worn down with fingerprints;
these rooms must have been quite used.
Not often such delicacy can be found, seeing
floors and pipes both falling to nature's muse.

Tables' legs are old and tired of standing,
why not let them sit a while?
Yet no matter what weather it shall be exposed to
this home, to its fate, has reconciled.

Carpets all were once soft and
scrunched between our children's toes,
how beatiful these floors and wallpaper must've been.
How beautiful? Only us aged would know.

The paint was once pungently new
it gleamed in softened sunlight,
while the windows acted as doors to dream's ways
and the shingles kept out the night.

Let me show you to that burrowed house
what memories it holds of ours, my dear
Come, lay here with me in this bed we shared
for now, in looking back, we hold no fear.