Houses of Souls I

When is a house, not a house but a home, a place to call your own a box to fill with treasures of heart and objets D’ art. Who built this wonderful place who would bleed, sweat n tears into a place, a time out of space it's beautiful, only if seen n... the eyes of the beholder? One sees as they please, his house never has had a life, living in the hollow halls, bringing life to the dead or nonliving but souls of the lost the outcast! Most of all... The deranged, the dead, the murdered insane linger here & there they occupy these rooms, these empty spaces in between birth n doom tall spires of white chrome wood. Weathered veins stood shouting north by northwest were even gargoyles flock defending the ramparts a rock of eons, now stooped form the host of the damned the defenders of the righteousness found shelter from the weather... when is this rambling home not a house but blood bone. These eves fade in time dropping to the field white washed wood fades paint cracks as it peals the boards come ajar as are these doors open to Afar. The lattice is breaking the windows are cracked falling glass shatters the mythic opulence faded once grand when is a house not a home when it’s alone? But the residence of the unknown the unknowable the outer voids where things roam here in these halls souls linger like fading arguments or laughter echoing dying like the dried roses drifting fine rust... Born on invisible currents, run motes of infinite dust blaring in the sun, harsh light fall in shafts slicing across the floor bare the revenances of an alternative past lifetime... Hosts rise to a different divinity so too is this house, not a home but an echo in eternity the marking of a past the passing of an intellectual ape. Now all blown to dust in an artificial star bust here on this quaint quear street a corner of a quiet town a different realm where a house is not a home where something roams It let its shadows roam in the souls of these lost rooms crowded and bare covered furniture broken Standing where shadows dare unfixed here laying there form a forgotten era languishes in the mid-summer heat. With specters of winters coming hell spirits will dwell in infinite finite finality When is a house not a house but a home a place to call your own...