The Victorian

The stately Victorian mansion sits quietly on a hill
Gazing down at the various by goers who cross its path
Its windows like piercing eyes that hold a dark secret, a mysterious past
Its inhabitants unknown, its autobiography untold, its once elegant rooms uncared for
It remembers when its parlor was full of lively conversation
When its kitchen gave forth aromatic smells of a time long gone
It waits patiently for someone to notice, for someone to inquire of its wisdom
And when someone does it will be overjoyed to be remembered
For it thought that it was forgotten, tossed away
But the truth is that the old never truly die away