This House
The walls of this house creak with all of the echoes of unforgotten screams The floors of this house squeak with the worn in pattern of bare feet Every cushion and sheet of this house smells of morning tea and cream And all of the pictures smile back even when there is agony underneath And sometimes I wonder what story this house whispers to the world Do the blinds that rattle against the windowpanes Tell a different story than the dead flowers that curl Or do they all the mutter the same? Do the cracks in the ceiling say we are kind Or are they always changing their mind? And sometimes I wonder if all of the memories we choose to forget Are the ones that this house will never let. -anna sluder