The old broken house with the tree growing through it

The old broken house with the tree growing through it
was the moonlit home
of birds and cats
and mice and rats.
Lightning bugs and faerie dust,
like shimmering ethereal  stars of gold,
illuminate the pensive fate,
of a life decayed and  cold.
Silver fish and centipedes
slither across the mossy walls
while deep in the thickets
the whippoorwill calls.
The old cellar doors, as broken as a heart, lie wide apart
on rusty hinges
hiding no secrets from the dusty old moon
shining on pools
and creaking crickets.