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I watched still and long, until sun had withdrawn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.