Within this house

Within this house
A poem by Oliver Wyatt-Burton

Here I sit within this house, this lonely house of mine
Not a soul does walk this house, although the lights do shine
The lights shine on for those that need, yet they’re not here tonight
For everyone is far away, and far into the night.

Here I sit within this house, this big old house of mine
So many empty rooms in this house, yet one is occupied
I sit here, within this room, shrouded by dark and doubt
For nothing in this house will move if no one is about.

Now ghosts walk this lonely house, this lonely house of mine
Characters of days long dead and gone, their words call out through time
I hear the two young boys running up the presently well-worn stairs
Could they have ever known back then that one would sit and stare?

Many many tales have told, within this house of mine
Of happiness, joy and sadness, of all that comes to mind
This house is changed and so am I, together we’ve grown old
Of fifteen years of living here, I swear this place once shone gold.

People came and people went, within this house of mine
Yet I am here the longest, still counting down the time
One day when I leave this house and walk the world without fear
Is it possible that my ghost would still be found right here?

Tonight’s a night of loneliness, within this house of silence
Some would welcome its’ silent embrace, yet I’ve been smothered so
All the people I called friends, where might they be tonight?
All with friends and family, forgetting my impact
None should spare a thought that I’m alone and needing that.

Now I walk within this house, this house of many years
Remembering all I’ve come to know within my home so dear
But if I were not within this house, this house of loneliness
Then who would have been so alone to the point of writing this?