Distance rumble I do not hear
As I sit near windowsill
Gaze lost in mindless thought
I hear the inner echo of my mind
Telling me there is something out there
But, old fragile husk of my body
Senses that there is nothing to fear
I sit lost in time to all around
Not knowing what distance rumble has come
My body has quell itself to the end
But, yet my mind wants to continue on
Hoping the body might come back as one
Dry bones rattle witin
Trying to speak out
No one there to hear
Their long story from days of old
They lie deep in ground
Forgot through ages past
Present noise above drowns them out
Clink loudly they try,
No one hears their rattle,
Anicent dry bones from ages past
Wooden old desk sits idle in dusty corner for a student to come;
But no one comes; for desk is old as distant time long ago
Collecting dust and cobwebs in abandon schoolhouse.
A dusty corner stacked high of old tatter boxes.
Tatter, musty boxes lost in time and space.
Pull boxes from their places,
They creak and groan upon the floor.
Flying dust in air of ages passes; now gone no more.
Ancient boxes open; a whiff of old surrounds the room.
Hands gently take out object never before have seen.
Old they are, just like the tatter, musty boxes,
But preserved with stories of old;
Stories of long ago; is what the object is now.
Young hands gently fond object once was used so well.
Back to its place in the tatter, musty box it goes;
Move tatter, musty box along the floor.
Back to dusty corner pile high with other tatter boxes;
They lie lost for awhile until another time comes by.
I stand in quietness of an empty room
Peeling with age within in its dark interior
Musty smell lingers of many come and gone
Who once stayed their time
I close my eyes I can hear their voices
Shouting to one another through walls
Only a barred window and door they look out
I stay only long enough to take a picture
Before I feel invisible hands may want me
To be a part of their past too
Cobble stone streets lined with perfect stone homes of past centuries of old.
The clanking of hooves as a horse moves through the busy cobbled street.
Uneven hard stones beneath my feet as I walk among the living past.
In the air a whiff of old as the past comes back to life.
People from the past begin to walk these century old cobble streets.
The gathering of the past coming to life like a book in front of me.
Alone and forgotten it sits on the hill.
Weather worn the walls lay still.
Old beyond repair the great house stands.
Empty, no sound but the creaky floors.
From centuries old it stands and waits,
Waiting for someone to try and restore its walls.
To bring it back to its formal glory,
The house on the hill will wait once more.