there's a lone house that sits

in the middle of an empty field

and though no one harvests

there's always much to yield

paint the color of snow

wood shutters a shiny red

the roof is all new tile

and floors where no feet tread

cars pass by and admire it

they even think about buying

sometimes she feigns to believe them

but deep down she knows they're lying

she sees the house upon the hill

and wonders if inside it might hold

a man much like this lady inside her

who's feeling like she's so old

oh sure, she seems well on the outside

and her admirers think she's complete

but they sometimes forget she is human

and then from her life  they retreat

inside her the wood is rotting

like that of a house long ago

she cries to herself in the silence

of the places her body must go

Yet that house on the hill seems so lovely

and all of this fits into her equation

that even if a house seems rundown

the heart is in the foundation