The Tree House Poem by John Scully
The Tree House
I climb up, a final look
its branches once gave weight
to when we went to play.
But now hang useless,
leaves long gone and drained.
Above, once snug, my tree house,
its eyes out, its liver
heart and bone now gone.
Just a slither of a rope remains
of distant childhood dreams.
Beneath, an echo of tiny voices still
creep out as memories always will.
Friday, July 6, 2012
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4/26/2024 5:39:42 PM # 1.0.0.1119
aye and as you look there you see the ghosts of yestertear play out the past memories, nice writing john.