Wednesday, September 23, 2015


In a far off place
In a tiny little town
There stands a house
On a street halfway down
It stands big and white
And two stories tall
It has rose bushes in front
With a little stone wall

I sit and I watch
This house that was once a home
Filled with another family
While I sit here alone

I'll never know this family
With faces that come and go
A little dog and a little car
And problems I'll never know

It's just the house that holds me
From my place of peace
It's the house that holds me
The memories never cease

It's a ghost that haunts me
A discarded shell of life forgotten
From a time when I young and happy
And my soul wasn't rotten

Those days are gone though
Lost to the wiles of time
My friends and family are gone now
Lost to disease and crime

So now I just sit here
Watching this house alone
Remembering faces and names long past
Watching the ghost that was once a home


  1. An interesting thought. A ghost, haunted by a ghost...

  2. Look at you go with the flow, it would sure stink to be a ghost watching away.

  3. I do often think about the homes we all live in--especially homes that are extremely old. What memories do they hold? Maybe that's why ghosts intrigue me...I have this infinite curiosity about the people who occupied all of these spaces long before we were here. I like to try to picture those people walking through the same doors or riding their horse-drawn carriages over the same ground.

  4. If homes could talk, they'd probably have lots of stories to share about all the people who have lived in them.

  5. This really reached me, Robert. For many reasons. Thank you.