Monument to one good fortune,
a mansion moulders on the hill,
cold stone faces all outsiders,
timbered parlors whisper weaalth.
Once she was a fancy lady,
curtained windows winking lace,
porches filled with clean white wicker,
gardens flowering style and grace.
Empty now, unkempt, decrepit,
flaking paint betrays her age,
scabby, weathered and neglected,
waiting for some better days.
first published in AllPoetry.com
©2014 Bonnie Manion