House on the Hill

An old open house
On an old dry hill.
Sits calmly still
With rotting window sills.

Rats and mice infest
While ghosts do the rest
To keep the curious at bay
With fear of such pests.

Inside lays a world unseen
As the door reveals all
Sitting on the clouded walls,
Dry wall quite ready to fall.

Old chairs on the dusty floor
Giving texture, emotionaly ample:
Are cobwebs and soot galore
To adorn the table and mantle.

Candle lit by aparition bright
Lights portrait of mystery,
Or a sight of poetry
In his wrinkled ancestry.

Lines of age, and happiness.
Signs of his long gone past
Like his lasting craziness
Lit by an impressionist.

Till resting soundly on a heap
In the corner seemingly asleep,
The ghost in hidsight glows
Revealing what the portrait shows.

And as the light goes out
Over his withered remains,
So do the long cast shadows
From an old open house.