house of grief

I dwelt within a house of shade, By silent hand and sorrow made. Each brick I laid with trembling care— Of shame, of guilt, of cold despair. No hearth did warm, no lamp did gleam, But dimness thick as haunted dream. No welcome waits behind the door, Only the hush of evermore. The days are long, yet never bright, And stretch like wounds into the night. No sun dares press against the pane— Just fog, and hush, and weeping rain. The floors do groan with every breath, The mirrors gaze like eyes of death. The windows sigh with unseen grief, Each corner curled like withered leaf. And yet—I stay. I do not flee. This house, this gloom, is home to me. Here silence wears a softer dress— No need for cheer, no need to guess. No laughing crowds, no hopeful din, Just steady ache that dwells within. No sudden joy, no searing dread— Just whispers in my weary head. I know these walls, each pallid seam, Each echo of a buried dream. The ghosts, they sit with quiet grace— I know each shadow’s sunken face. They speak not loud, nor plead, nor moan— For in this house, I’m not alone. To some, this place brings terror near, The stillness thick, the creeping fear. But I—have found a peace, in part, In pain that pulses from the heart. The world beyond spins far too fast, With futures blurred and spells long passed. But here, the sorrow is my own— It carves its shape into my bone. No pity ask I from the light, Nor cure for this enduring night. I rest in rooms of solemn tone— This house of dark, this heart of stone. Yes, I have dreamt of skies once clear, Of laughter pure and love sincere. But now I drift through twilight’s dome— For grief, for now, has made its home. And should some dawn reach through the gray, To beckon me, to bid me stay— Perchance I’ll rise, or break the spell… But 'til that hour, I know too well: This hush, this ache, this sacred gloom— It is my hearth. It is my room