The old house stands in moonlight pale,

Its bones a frame of weary wood,

And through the halls, a wistful tale,

Of years gone by, misunderstood.

The floorboard sighs with every step,

A voice so frail yet firm and true,

It holds the weight, though age has crept,

Through creaking joints and splintered hue.

It once stood strong in bygone days,

When laughter spilled from every room,

When candlelight in golden haze

Chased shadows back into the gloom.

The children ran with dancing feet,

Their games a rhythm on its skin,

A harmony so bright and sweet,

That echoed deep, forever pinned.

Then lovers paused in stolen night,

Soft whispers pressed against its grain,

Their murmurs swirled in silver light,

Yet vanished swift, like summer rain.

The storms did rage, the thunder called,

Yet still it held, through wind and chill,

Through battering gales, through echoes tall,

It fought its fate, endured the will.

But time, relentless, carved its mark,

Each step a weight it long had known,

Its voice grew thin, a hollow spark,

Yet still it hummed, though now alone.

Now silence walks where music soared,

The halls are dim, the echoes fade,

Yet in the night, the creaky board

Still sings its song, though worn and frayed.

It tells of love, of sorrow deep,

Of footsteps light and trudging woe,

Of memories time longs to keep,

Though fleeting as the winds may blow.

Oh, let it sing, its weary tune,

The ballad of the years it’s seen,

For though its frame may break too soon,

Its song remains, a voice between.

The moon will fade, the sun will rise,

The house will crumble, walls will fall,

Yet in the dust, beneath the skies,

Its echoes drift, beyond recall.

It will not bow, nor beg nor weep,

For all it held within its grain,

Are stories sung, so soft, so deep,

A ghost within the house’s vein.

So walk, oh walker, tread with care,

For though its time will one day cease,

Its song still lingers in the air,

A melody that whispers peace.