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...
Copyright © Poet Tellaferro | Year Posted 2022
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