Lines your crumbling porch steps,
Grow through your spindled bars of cracked gray-white,
Crept in to devour
Your smooth cool surfaces of beady pebbles.
You became so forgotten,
And your history has no recent accounts to verify,
Except for those silk spider webs
and some eerie transparent beings,
Lingering inside your dusty halls,
Where cracked wallpaper becomes tiny dust motes,
With mystical orbs floating upward among the decaying
And tattered tapestry walls.
Your red clay shingles, long gone in many places,
leaving Big black holes,
Where the spirits and old sorrows collect,
Panes of tall glass are missing and long ago shattered.
Hearty vines are tangled and growing through open areas,
And they surround loose metal gutters clanking in the wind.
You look mournful and sad
With a permanent tired presence,
Circled by tall dead grass and brown gathered scrub,
You have fallen apart
In this lonely address,
Located on a dreary back road,
Among the plowed rows and endless fields,
That meet the sinister thickets,
–J. E. Cook ©2016