A farmhouse sits
at the end of the way,
quiet and unassuming, wilting
like over-ripened crops.
Vacancy: an empty mind,
deleted and reconfigured
until only white paint peels from
the hearty foundation.
I can read its mottled history:
the cheerful wood sagging between
support beams, and its fortress
of memories hang frozen
in solidarity to its residents:
the generations youve outlived.
The silent pride of its antiquity looms,
but windows cry for ownership
and doors beg to hinge.
A home collapsed,
steadfastly insisting its false history
as a Manhattan skyscraper.
Todays best new poem was written by Johanna Mustico.
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