Up in the attic, sits an old dusty case,It’s covered with crayon marks and faded gray lace. Deep in its pockets, under some stuff, lay a yellow paged album, with old photos of us. As I browsed the pictures, now faded from time. I went to a place, way back in my mind. This little brick house with the white picket fence. The house I grew up in, but hadn’t seen since.
A home filled with singing and love for the Lord, where out near the fence sat dad’s rusty old Ford. All grown up I went off on my own, always intending to make my way home. I planned to visit, but I guess I pushed fate, Time passes quickly and now it’s to late.
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