The House of Pain
One last trip down memory lane,
one last look at the house of pain,
with busted windows and empty shell,
and stagnant, stinking, wishing well.
Into the kitchen where love once toiled,
the dish now cold, its flavour spoiled,
no seasoning here, no spice of life,
just a rusting, bloodied, carving knife.
Into the front room where passion once flamed,
the glow long dead, extinguished by blame,
just ashes remain of this funeral pyre,
not even an ember of burning desire.
Back into the garden of nettles and weeds,
its barren black earth unsown by seeds,
the gardener’s gone, his tools are all downed,
he jumped in the wishing well and almost drowned.
One last walk from memory lane,
no last look back at the house of pain,
I hear a voice beyond its walls,
a beautiful voice that echoes and calls.
Copyright © Mark Jones | Year Posted 2005
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