The Old House

Cracked and stained, of life and death
and something in between…
Of ghosts that flit, with teasing breath;
that seemed as ever-green.

Eyes; unsheltered, shattered lens,
proclaim a soul laid bare…
And yet a gateway to old friends,
insist the harking share.

Liberty and sadness vie
for dominance in mind…
And oils of long forgotten sighs,
can seem a sight unkind.

Far better, not to look upon
this mangled heart turned stone…
but now, alas, the deed is done,
and I am more alone.

Thus turned away, with misty view,
I seek once more the road…
And leave for all, the youth I knew;
a broken down abode!

Chris Birrane © 2011