The table leg is broken, the bookshelf is dusty
Heavy boots lay abandoned, the window sill is rusty
I place my hand on the cold window, it leaves a steamy print.
I can almost see a smaller one just inside of it.

A doll rest on the dresser, her hair is brown, and her eyes are amber
I touch her cold porcelain face aching to remember
I must have been here long ago, or at least that is what it seems
maybe i have visited here somewhere within my dreams

the wood floor creaks beneath my feet, and something rustles over head
there are still living things here although this house is dead
but, if i close my eyes, I hear its soft sounds perforate the gloom
music from a record player drifts from room to room

The smells of something baking, and the woods outside
a mix of imagination and what really abides
when one step inside this house is like going back in time
pulling a curtain back from a past and wondering if its mine

memories haunting or exciting as they pass
only to try and make them last
Im searching for the answers, i am taking baby steps
but yet I know, I got a lot of journey left