Untitled

an old abandoned

house sits in the woods

bearing all the tales of a life, dead

and all the signs of one that's good

its the house

of the rising sun

metal frames

with rust eating the shine

and dresses hanging from canes

they make good nests for the leaves of pine

its the house

of the rising sun

a music box with old, familiar tunes

echoes over the rocks

and makes the daisies sing and bloom

its the house 

of the rising sun

Light filters in

through the cracks in the blinds

making soft dust glitter and spin

now live dancers of all kinds

its the house

of the rising sun