Not a poem. A work in progress.

The house was one of those houses that seemed to be inhabited by only mice, and the dozen or so stray cats that fed on them.
Children would stand across the street and share lies of bravery, witches and ghosts; she knew this because she would watch with haunted eyes through the cracked, broken blinds hanging from her kitchen window.

She remembered a time, a time that felt like yester-year,  long ago but not too long that she couldn't remember the thrill of being a child, the security of her lovers embrace...

Always sad, and alone, she had no family nearby, no grandchildren to fill her home with laughter and mischief during weekend visits.
She really had nothing to look forward to, her prayers consisted of "Please God Let This End Tonight", but to no avail.
Every morning she would wake up before dawn and with fading hope and determination she would force her brittle old bones to carry her out to her mail box and retrieve yesterdays mail.
But the pictures of cherubic little faces wrapped lovingly within letters from her children never came, so cautiously she would make the difficult journey back down the drive way and up the dilapitated steps to the seclusion of her cluttered home. 
With false hope she would convince herself that tomorrow the letters would be there.
But they never were, as there were never any visitors for tea or even a kind smile from a friendly neighbor.

Sitting in her tattered chair she thought of the coming winter weather and the dreaded aches that the bitter cold brought to her life.
Reaching for her pocketbook she mumbled a weak prayer for enough money from her social security to buy a bundle or two of wood for the stove when she suddenly noticed the sound of chattering.
It sounded as if three or more men were standing on her porch in the midst of a discussion; as she stood and walked to the door she was startled by the men now standing in her living room.
" What are you doing in my house" she demanded, but they ignored her as they continued through the creaking house toward her bedroom, acting as if her presence was but a mere irritation in their goal.
Following after the men as quickly as she could she was overcome with a fury of frightening proportions. The teasing and taunts from the neighborhood children were one thing but these men had intruded into her home and she was not going be bullied in her own house.
She continued after the intruders; hobbling into her bedroom she glanced the room, looking for something to club them with when she saw the younger man open her bedroom window complaining of the smell.
The woman was ready to protest when she noticed the lump on her bed, moving closer; no longer concerned about those who had led her to this place, she stood in shock as they lifted the quilt from her body.