Walls peeling away into nothing, roof falling in, full of scrap and skeletons and soul. Oh Home to those that stop on their way somewhere else, who knows what you were. Now you hold debris and potshots in your walls, drawing stares from everyone who passes you on the highway. Who lived with you? How many generations kept you together? Why would they leave? Was it a choice? Is there anyone who remembers what you meant enough to miss you? You still have a beauty. You are not beyond repair, and in no need of redemption.