There once was a house,
In which you were allowed to play.
To rest,
To lay,
To love,
You were forever welcomed within its halls.
There was a house,
And there were many locked doors,
But you were okay,
Helping the owner open them.
There was a house,
And behind one of those doors,
Was found a rose,
Wilting,
Dying,
Under a glass dome.
There was a house,
And the owner wanted to renovate
Not much to the outside,
But the rooms they had found,
They had so much more.
There was a house,
And when you came,
It was with fear,
For you did not see
What the house wanted to be.
You tried to not let it show,
To buy materials to help
To give advice where you could,
But could not hide the quiet.
There was a house,
But you began going to others,
And when you came,
You told the house how lovely they were.
You spoke of their wallpaper, their carpets, of how everything works so well.
As you stood on everything new,
Using the old words for me.
There was a house,
Now it is less
A strewn mass of rubble,
That you skip happily down.
Running your hands down faded walls,
You pay lip service,
As you pass the rose,
part of the centerpiece of what this house was to be.
You never see the roots,
As they climb down the table,
Wrap around all around them,
Pull everything tighter,
Together.
You complain as you prick your finger,
Dancing down the thorns,
How dare this house hurt you?
There was a house,
And the echoes still ring down the halls,
Of the name you call.
Those echoes fill every room,
Surround all that you claim to hold dear,
Because you can’t see,
That Rose is also here.
There was a house,
But there is a garden now.
I wish you could see it,
To call it beautiful,
To lay among the flowers,
To call their petals soft.
There is a garden,
But that does not mean the house has gone away.