There once was a house on the end of a lane.

Tall and erect, it wasn’t stately but it was a home.

Over the years it fell into repair.

It’s shutters crooked,

The paint, cracked and peeling.

A shell of its former self.

One day, someone took pity on it.

They poured their money and time into.

Not restoring, but creating something new entirely.

The person was proud of what they had built,

But the neighbors mourned.

What had once been a distinct, individual home,

Had now become like the others.

Indistinguishable from the crowd.