I dont come here much anymore. Too many memories. They say every place has a tale to tell, Every rusted piece of machinery a mystery. That window over there, looking pale And yellowed with age And dust and yesterdays wonder, One o my cousins broke Way, way back before Grandpa had his stroke And Grandma left her easy chair for the last time. And all the Grandchildren learning how to ride bikes Proud as can be circling the driveway like a race track. Pretending we were hunters of mighty beast, Climbing tree to tree... Searching for treasurers, Buried out there near the old barn that still needed A coat or two of fresh paint. Grandma would tell stories that would bring us Into worlds of imagination and wonder We had never known before. All the color and fire, That lingered in every word. You cant breathe when it hits you. Its like it Sucks the air right out of the little space you find , And the weight of the grain slowly drowns out your Thoughts and your struggles, your prayers And your cries. And nothings left to do But feel that terror Of nothingness pull you away. So many memories... But I dont come here much anymore. This place haunts me. The old barn now ready to fall down in to a rusted heap Standing watching wood and metal every step I take,Like a sentinel standing guard over a forgotten land The porch where we all played as kids gone, Gone forever... And the tree that Grandpa would sit under Trimming his fingernails with that pocket knife Lays on its side, victim to the winds of time that never cease Reminding me of those echoes that whisper things I thought Id forgotten. I can hear their voices, I hear the laughter, Grandma, hollering Suppers ready. Grandpa slamming down the hood on The truck and wiping the hot sweat from his brow, kicking mud off his Work boots and heading on in. No, I dont come here much anymore. This place holds far too many ghosts..................................
Posted on: Wed, 03 Dec 2014 06:14:26 +0000
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