This Place // Poetry Series Part 5

This house is not a home

Built with faded walls and

Crumbling ceilings

of words never meant.

This room is not a living room

The walls are too cold

and the living never enter,

Only lies, only death.

A green door,

Scratched paint, a faded number

Never judge a book,

Never judge a home

By its cover.

What you see is not

What is there.

A family home, reduced to

Hostile silence and

Angry thoughts.

It can never be the same,

It will never be the same.