Wednesday, June 10, 2009


We painted the walls to shield our eyes.
Nestled in between the land beyond
And the golden lakes,
Our house crumbles under the weight.

Timber beams crack and groan from the wind
and the stones begin to break.
It’s a house we know, it’s a house we love.
it’s a house we need to leave.

Abandoned apart from the memory of battle.
A scarred chimney and a jumbled pathway
Offset the quiet door, sunken into the wall,
But do not cover it up.

An entrance so enchanting,
That a glimmer and a spark of wonder washes over you
But not us.
We still have paint on our knuckles.

I wish we could bead together the dew
And make a string that will lead us from the fields,
But our sense of direction would lead us astray.

And maybe we’d wander forever through our known trails,
Or to a new town where nobody knew our names.
If only we’d be so lucky,
We could wash the paint from our hands.

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