the house on the hill beckons
as the young girl in the yard cries
for a mother who left her
for a father who
never dared to care,
much less remember.
when the night comes and it always does
will we fumble around in our memories deep
lost in a haze of frantic persuasions
or lay there till morning
spent,
pining for those days of springtime
and folly
when the right way seemed wrong
somehow,
we never cared much about
highways and stumbling blocks,
what makes us any different now?

and there's that house
on the hill that beckons,
still...

04/19/2010

Posted on 04/20/2010
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