Along the Way
The old house still empty these long years,
behind dusty written history on the windows.
Filtering memories along fate’s narrow rows,
ivy-covered silences soft enclosed in tears.
Down the lane far from an ageless nowhere,
it sits in its antebellum estate of disgrace.
Behind broken walls and rusted wrought lace,
as if time stopped and didn’t restart or care.
I pass it often, wondering who lived there then,
and what had they been like, were they like me?
Had they wondered about older others or even see,
and did it cross their mind what had ever, ever been?