Those that are confined in old age homes exist as if in a different world, many of whom linger to the end, lonely and bereft of the joy they had once experienced in years gone by.
They call it a place of care –
a world distinctly apart,
Where many a soul seems lost;
where many a broken heart
Once earned its share of thrill;
but that was long ago,
Far back on a “lofty hill.”
They call it a place of love
From where there’s no retreat;
where the snow keeps piling high
On a one-way, dead-end street;
where the sun doesn’t intrude
On the chilly, twilight gloom
of the winter’s solitude.
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