A Crumbling House

There is more meaning to this poem than just a deteriorating heap of ruble. To me I see a family. I see two parents who have built this life in this house for them and there kids.  I see ply wood broken and plaster worn away. I see this dreary rain running in streaks down the window. It's cold and rainy and the house is falling apart but on the inside everything is warm and held together. I see a fireplace with a roaring cracking flame. I see a couch with a mother and a father sitting and watching. They intently stare with bliss and a sense of accomplishment. They gaze upon two little children playing with there toy cars and what not; and as they stare there children get older and within a couple of blinks they are grown up and gone. They don't tear down this house or rebuild it. They don't do this because it's not theirs. That house was never for them it was always for there children. To them that house nurtured and helped raise their kids, and because of this fact to alter the ascetic beauty of this crumbling home would be a sacrament to all the warm moments of love that were shared inside.