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Ghost House
by Lucy Elliott
Silent frame beneath the sky
stands alone rustic brown
where once I played
and sang of birds,
skies, and warm apple pies
while silent smoke
from her chimney rose
and walls and plaster
once lovingly held
voices, chatter,
laughter, love.
But all is gone
an empty shell
alone and old
below a fading sky
silent proud
still she stands
and echoes
long forgotten
sounds.
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