Old Home

There was a house on a hill, quiet and old.

The floors creaked as you stepped and the windows let in what light they could afford.

The dust had long since settled, undisturbed for many a year.

Until he entered.

Long forgotten, he ran his fingers through the dust, leaving a long, thin, line across cabinets that had long past served a meal.

He picked up an old photograph and gently blew; the picture faded and no longer recognizable.

Another Post from the Archive

A majority of my posts are nothing more than a title, an idea. Some are fully fleshed out, others are not. They sit, collecting dust and I suppose they have been on my mind as I find comfort in going through each post and finishing what I started or creating something entirely new from what I had. This poem was nothing more than a title and it has become so much more.


Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!

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