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There's a house on Windy Corner
at the top of Breezy Hill
standing cold, alone and empty
in the grasp of Winter's chill.
Once the rafters rang with laughter,
fun and music filled the air.
Sunshine poured through every window.
Love lived in profusion there.
Now it houses only phantoms;
Ghostly voices whisper low.
Time, the ultimate assassin
plied his blade long years ago
As I brush aside the cobwebs
in each dusty room it seems,
once again I hold my memories.
Broken echoes of my dreams.
© By Thomas Vaughan Jones (TVaughanJones@aol.com)
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