The Old House...

As I walk past the old house, where shadows play,
A flicker of light in the window does sway.
Through panes aged by time's relentless might,
I glimpse a world half-hidden from sight.

In the heart of this dwelling, where stories entwine,
The lights flicker, like whispers from a time gone by.
Each pulse, a beat in the symphony of the night,
Telling tales of joy, sorrow, and fright.

Down below, in the depths where secrets sleep,
Lies the basement, its silence profound and deep.
A realm untouched by the kiss of day's light,
Holding mysteries cloaked in the shroud of night.

And there, the door, standing firm and tall,
A sentinel to histories untold, a guardian to all.
What lies beyond its creaking embrace,
A world unseen, in time and space.

So, I walk past the old house, under moon's soft glow,
Pondering the stories it might know.
For in each flicker, in each silent call,
Lies a tale waiting, behind the old house's wall.