The house protects its own
With its whispered creaks and moans
Stretched to its very limits
By the secrets it withholds
Outlasted by time’s cruel show
Blazing sun dancing in windows
Traced around shadow and light
Like salty tears to dust
Seasons blend together as rain
Coalescing into prismatic refrain
While wood calcifies like bone
Weathered by this consequence
The house rattles its shutters
Screaming for a deep release
Awakening this deep nostalgia
That sighs in the sloughing wind
But it tiptoes around the truth
The aching need for a change
Surrounded by a host of ghosts
Begging for a slow release
It eases weary bones into the earth
As it settles.
Sam
Sam's Online Journal 
Nice poetic devices! The first stanza was stunning. Old houses do seem to protect themselves, as they are alone but still standing like many people.
Thank you very much.