HOUSE OF THE SILVER FEATHER

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 FOUR WALLS DOES NOT MAKE A HOME




FOUR WALLS DOES NOT MAKE A HOME
  


Let me make this perfectly straight, my house was never a home
It had a roof that sheltered us from the weather,
But not the storms inside; it had four walls that held the roof up
There was a floor that completed this tomb of anger in the dark

Within this tomb, it was divided into separate rooms
Each had four walls, a floor and a ceiling
I dwell-ed in one of these rooms, take note I dwell-ed, not lived
My sister had her room next to mine in order to feel safe.

Each had a bed and a window to breath fresh air
It had a door to shut out the horrors in this world
A lock upon the door, why? It was busted down quite a few times
It was our room to shut out the outside world and each other

My room held no memories of good in fact, it held nothing
Reflections of what was and reflections of what sudden have
These four walls can only talk of sounds and cry of the lonely
And the horrors felt in this tomb of anger in the dark

Sometimes comfort was felt inside our world of the living dead
This house could tell the stories of fear and glass breaking
The walls speak of secrets that were known in times before us
It's deafening when you sit still, the past wants to speak

Many years were spent as a haven of sorts from the outside world
Extremely lonely at times was I, was she, was we...
It was better feeling that way
Because opening the door meant faking a smile

My house was never a home
No matter how much the walls needed to scream out loud
I never felt rooted, never felt welcomed
If four walls could talk, what a story of me.

My house was never a home
My mother was chained to a stove for twenty-six years, till her death
My sister needed to feel safe, it was trek softly not to wake the beast
My house never knew the meaning of the word, HOME!










by Richard Lee Cook
Copyright 2011
An SILVERFEATHER Creation



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