This Old House

By Kristian Brown

This old house, all covered in vines,

Twisting and tangled, how rampant they climb-

Through the remnant of glass in the window sills

Though they be murky and broken, hold a glimmer, still-

A reflection of those, who, from the inside,

Whispered secrets and dreams

Into the night breeze-

Hoping they catch, and be carried away,

That the stars might hear, and the moon might say:

“Sleep little one, and tomorrow we’ll see-

The sun, it will rise and bring a new light,

Your secret is safe, and your dreams are free.”

And the faded grey light that lingers inside,

Where now, the dust dances through beams of moonlight,

Reminisce the sounds that once filled the rooms

Of laughter and life, like a red rose in bloom.

And the echoes of emptiness, of a void in the dark,

Beat like a drum with a longing heart.

And the old chimney aches for the warmth of a fire,

Though the ashes have long settled; transfused into mire.

Though on some distant wind, under a parallel sky.

The windows, intact: portals of secrets and dreams-

Silhouettes of young lovers, dance in moonbeams.

And the rooms, they are filled with laughter and light;

The chimney still smokes, and the ashes, they rise.

This old house, devoured by vines,

To someone,


In some moment in time-

Is the last burning ember to a smoldering past,

Glowing and dimming like a firefly through glass;

A haven of memories, by now, long forgot-

That grow ever more distant with each beat of the clock.