the old house sits on top of the old hill

and when the winds howl in the deep of night

the floorboards respond with shrieks of their own

the mold in the wallpaper has many stories to tell

the mice in the attic have seen it all

and then there’s the tire swing

hanging from the big tree in the front yard

 

in the old bedroom of the old house that sits on top of the old hill

the dust bunnies play in the crevices

and if you squint you can almost see the footprints along the creaky floor

the bed isn’t as warm now

but the mattress still remembers fondly

and sometimes when the sun hits just right

you can look out the window

and see the tire swing

hanging from the big tree in the front yard

 

in the old backyard of the old house that sits on top of the old hill 

there lies a secret just below the grass

but there are no longer flowers in her hair

now weeds find solace in her ribcage

and the soil welcomes her home

she whispers her sonnets to the earth

she is broken bottles and sleepless nights

she is hollow eyes and brittle heart

and she loved the tire swing

hanging from the big tree in the front yard.