Travesties

the house on the hill beckons as the young girl in the yard cries for a mother who left her for a father who never dared to care, much less remember. when the night comes and it always does will we fumble around in our memories deep lost in a haze of frantic persuasions or lay there till morning spent, pining for those days of springtime and folly when the right way seemed wrong somehow, we never cared much about highways and stumbling blocks, what makes us any different now? and there's that house on the hill that beckons, still...