This house is not a home
its walls bare in place.
Its stairwells broad with
no memories in order,
staring at a wall with no
character, no paint.

For these walls are nothing
more than a space to contain the
echoes of sorrow. and the crash of
shattered glass on the floor.

This place is not a home,
but merely a shelter,
a place to retire my eyes for a few moments in
the night.

The air breathed in is borrowed.
For it belongs to the trees by fate
which they cannot grasp even with
their longest roots. If they had
any say they'd keep it to themselves
for the things they've been brought through.

These windows are open for
the world to see inside a house
that is limited to only twigs and branches.

The roof isn't just a mere protecting piece
because for this house it is just as easy to fall in.

These locks on the door
were once owned by those whose
hearts are now broken.

The stars are nothing more than
street lamps, broken street lamps on
the block that twitches throughout
the night.

But a house is still a house
providing shelter and location
but this house is no home,
it provides no open arms.