Story Being Told
4-3-23
Stepping out I get a feeling
Nerves wrecked, I am reeling.
To be here alone
Takes fists of stones.
Darkness to the ceiling
Each step, then a pause.
My eyes dart, because
This might be too much.
For one man to trust.
Past the limit and laws
Approaching the steps, cracked.
My fear of getting trapped.
The porch is rotted.
My steps are charted.
Each move skillfully mapped
Doorknob rusted and tainted.
Decades since it was painted.
The spitting of the wood.
This place misunderstood.
Something I’m acquainted
Pushing the door open, it creeks
Of dust and emptiness it reeks.
The darkness dominates inside.
My feet want to move, I tried.
The voice in my head it speaks
A couch and a chair welcome me.
Came with the place, certainly
For their patterns matched.
Thought it was trashed.
And left this for me, inadvertently
A fireplace would warmly glow.
Melting the ice and the snow.
The peace it creates
For summer it waits.
The children anxious, I know
The kitchen window is cracked.
The ability to heal itself lacked.
Over the sink it stands.
Proudly it demands.
Not wanting to detract
The cupboards stay widely opened.
Several were rotted or broken.
Why does this seem.
Like it’s still a dream
Suddenly a sound, me it awoken
Resisting the urge to leave.
My steps in darkness to weave.
Maybe my mind was tricked.
Eroding my will, it stripped.
Still I stayed, my nerves to retrieve
The piano so proud and sturdy.
The songbook untouched and worthy.
Though songs long gone.
And it seems so wrong.
Why leave out in a hurry
The beds not touched for years.
I stare while almost in tears.
The children slept
The faces they wept
Exposing their thoughts and fears
Looking out the children’s window.
It was like the yard gave an intro.
To places imagined.
I wondered what happened
Something to look into
The red flowers in a hallway
Pertinent in a broad way.
For each flower touched.
By hands that rushed.
To their parents doorway
The crib is silent, I’m reserved.
To look inside at what’s preserved
I touched the same bars.
That were theirs, not ours.
Things we don’t deserve
What was left behind decades ago.
By people we might never know.
Tells a sad story.
Of her past glory.
I wonder why they had to go
Back down the stairs, overwhelmed.
Not disturbing, I feel compelled
Leave what’s here alone.
Remember this was a home.
The location I withheld
The grass, there is remnants of play.
Voice long gone, put away.
But once they resided.
Some reason they decided.
To leave this to decay
I can’t think enough about them.
What happened, my mind it’ll bend.
Yet, we will never know.
My thoughts I’ll slo.
Head bowed, prayer I’ll send
