Here

An old house, sitting upon a lonely hill, surrounded by gray, abandoned, dead cotton. It beckons, calls from the past. Voices long gone, people, pets, children running along the lane... Ghosts of antiquity. I ache as the high grass bows, the bushes, un-kept and wild, the bleak unpainted walls, black, dirt covered and chipped. Here, The winds are the only voices, screaming, 'Where did they go? ' The family who lived, laughed, and loved here? Here, Where now live the mice, ants and birds. Here, Where the sun rises and sets, Upon an old, abandoned house.