I mourned the impossible dream, 

I shuddered like the rotting beams in the old forgotten house.

I shed tears, 

Their color shifting like the full moons light.

Colors deep shades of violet and jade,

Like the broken stained glass window,

Embedded in the wooden front door.

The white bones of mother,

And old joy forming spirals of twisted creepers,

Enveloping the old house like a cold embrace.

Some lowly whisper calling me back, 

But still I can never return,

For all that remains is silken robes tattered and worn.

The lonely creature,

Moths now rest in the front most corridor.