May 6, 2008
By Dalton Gore, Renton, WA

A long black road seems to wind, ever going straight
Feeding people to houses, trailers, places to live
The street has a name, it goes by Elise Gore
The first house is a large house, green in color
Standing silently as if a guard to the outside world
Protecting the houses behind it

The house creaks; it is old, older than the others
It moans and groans, scaring off the world
The screen door bangs, the door behind it rarely closed
Radio playing, the music of life resonating inside
The house is alive, breathing heavily all the time
Waiting for the kids to come back in

The times come, it gets cold, and it gets warm
The weather and the times try to do it harm
Thunderstorms, tornadoes, it has survived the worst
The trailers are gone; destroyed some of them
But the house still stands there, on Elise gore Lane
Protecting its contents from the outside world

The house is still standing today, although worn
It stands proud and tall, like an elder in a town
Watching over, making sure everything’s all right
It’s running out of time, as a house it is
Maybe as a monument to the memories of life
For in the tattoos of memories it will always exist

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