Pitch of Night
Afternoon once found me a house on a hill
With sunken wood frame, and dust weathered sills.
Through whist frigid pine I then fixed my gaze,
On rows of blank windows forgotten, erased.
I watched still and long, until sun had withdrawn
For sign of a life unaware of my own.
’Til pitch of night loomed and fell o’er the home
Where nobody stirred, nor corridors roamed.
And no sooner than I turned back to the path,
Beaten down now where I had once strayed,
On flickered a light, subduing the night
For even the dimmest of lights are called home.