In the House of My
In the House
Twisted between torn
loyalties I fade,
A curl of charred hair, or a tattered photograph might speak,
And can tell me when things were different.
His rough embrace remembered,
But I am still a child in his mild eyes,
Somewhere between the depth of youth and the apex of age,
But within I know I will be alone.
Walk away as a grown man,
With the scars of youth behind me,
And is there still a lonely place to be found in his house,
Hoarding its echoes of laughter and tears.
In the House of my Father,
Where bitter walls stank of alcohol and regret,
Unwashed floors and smoke-stained ceilings…
Made a wall called “home,”
And a prison called “love.”
The House of my Father knows
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