On the hill sits a house,
It once was a home,
With pictures of loved ones,
And an oft-used telephone.

The carpet was clean,
The hearth was brand new,
Flowers in vases,
And a hilltop view.

The TV was always on,
A crowded living room,
Children running down the halls,
Mother singing out of tune.

But now the house is quiet,
Leaves strewn across the floor,
The carpet torn and tattered,
Dirty fingerprints on the once-white door.

A vase shattered on the table,
Dead flowers scattered about,
The chairs chipped and splintered,
A tea kettle with a broken spout.

Family photos in black and white,
The pictures obscured in their crooked frames,
The wallpaper faded from blue to ash,
A faint pattern of roses being all that remains.

The front door was left open,
Revealing rolling hills beyond the glen,
As though left like that on purpose,
With the promise to return again.

Hey! It's been a while since I've posted. I haven't stopped writing poetry, but I just never think to post it. I'll try to be better about that from now on! Also the rhyme scheme in this one was a little erratic, kind of choppy, but I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed reading it! 💖