Chronicles of an old house

I’m in the drawing room its half past two at night,
I’m sitting here all alone with no one but my two lovely companions by my side.
Literature from all around the world surrounding me,
A century old house with nothing but history,
Stories of people who are no more, stories of people who left, stories of people who visited, stories of people who built,
Letters and pictures from every decade,
Each opened box uncovering a missing page,
Each unopened cupboard consumed with tales of the past,
Fabrics and drawings and records from the globe,
Cotton and silk and lace and the finest of embroidery all aboard,
Pakeezah and elvis and frank Sinatra,
Boxes and boxes of tin containing knowledge within,
Worn and matured record players being put to the test,
Panchatantra and 1970s American magazines,
The house has had its rest,
Being locked and dusty for 20 years,
Rejuvenated by a family facing their fears,
Back is the same blood,
To add new chapters and continue the memoir,
For when opened again new tales are to be found,
New trinkets and new stories,
The family chronicles have not yet reached their end.

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