Even The Ghosts Forgot

It stands apart and alone, in wrack and ruin, reflective but with naught to tell
An insignificant mark on a map, but once a home, reduced to an empty shell
Now it's only the wind that passes by, except for the passers-by on the B676
Where there's barely a second glance to the derelict pile of crumbling bricks

The empty windows host the hollow shadows, where only a darkness settles
Where there was hope before, now there is creeping ivy and stinging nettles
Perhaps it was a place of reveries, that were crushed to dust, like brittle glass
And when the key finally turned the lock, they were left to perish in the past

Today it's a desolate place, forever trapped in a hedge, on the edge of a field
And when the hinges last creaked, every last tale of the memories was sealed
Now there're no passers-by, except the clouds and the sky of passing seasons
Even the ghosts forgot, but the sun did not, as its shadow is cast and deepens