Untitled Shakespearean Sonnet

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An empty house, ancient and beautiful.

Stands regally above the lowly earth.

Shingles slither off, front porch steps crumble.

But the house has immeasurable worth.

 

Inside swarm ghosts, memories of the past.

They drift through walls, melting into shadows.

Misty white and vague gray, they fade too fast.

Cry for the world they knew, oh how time goes.

 

A shade of a woman watches the road

Waiting for her soldier to return home.

A rope sways gently with its human load

His flesh and bones lost to flowers and brome.

 

If walls could speak, what stories would they tell?

Yet this house sits silent, a timeless shell.

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