Passing Through

It stands guard on the hill, A hill of dead soil And dead grass, Skeletal trees extending Skinless fingers, Pleading for a helping hand. The path climbs to the clouds, Twisting and turning, Like a spectral mist. Cobbles cracked And cobbles missing, It has not been walked in years. The facade glares with anger, Faint candles flicker In lurking windows, Shadows dance across Splintered window frames, Waiting for someone to come in. A door of weather-worn oak, Towers above all visitors, The bolts rusted And crumbling away, The handle, dirty brass, Its movement slothful. It has one dislocated room, A room enveloped in webs, Weaved by many creatures That scurry Across the broken floorboards, Their domain has been disturbed. In the corner, the moonlit corner A rocking chair rocks Hauntingly, in faint breeze, Each movement sounding A creek of pain That echoes within stone walls. This is my home, I have not returned For a long time, a very long time, Since the time I sat in that same rocking chair And looked out towards green valleys, With my wife kneeled beside me, I would stroke her hair, Feel the softness of her cheek, The fire in her lips.