This Old House



This Old House

Hidden within the undergrowth,
Just barely seen to the eye,
Lies the house of your old,

If you look closely you will spy,
How once it stood proud,
When everything was young and unbeaten,
Colours vibrating beautifully loud,

Upon its face and tiles were neatened,
And now, here it lies broken and unkempt,
Lived in, but distantly reflective,
Covered in cynicism and contempt,

Bitterly peeling away from life and protective,
Of thoughts and actualities,
What is and what is not important,
Considerations awarded to realities,

Trying to be objective and not deviant,
Yet if only these walls could speak,
What would they really say?
Joyously break loose and leak,

On everything from back in the day,
When love filled this old house,
Each layer scented with sensual pleasure,
And the air within was aroused,

By beautiful memories of the dweller?
When sunlight shone clear and true,
Through the minds’ windows,
Visions of the most startling blues,

Were always on display and show,
To those who chose to see fair,
On thoughts young on the road of life,
Before the damnations you came to share,

With yourself in this old house of strife,
How many of us can see through panes,
Shattered by upsets and sadness from the broken,
Cluttering and ram shackled hidden frames,

That makes up our minds now as a token,
Of whom we once were, when we had,
Just begun to walk into relations,
With others not knowing the good and bad,

Tolls it could take upon our foundations?
Walking away from past loves and relations,
Like closing the doors within old houses,
Easier to deal with, cope with, less frustrations,

Walking away from partners or spouses,
As if they did not exist in your mind at all,
Never living or dwelling within,
Your mind closed off coping with the fall,

Discarding keys to the mind once has been,
My house, this old house is looking to anew,
Inspirations need to again be motivated,
Stop switching rooms to simply change views,

Cease the slamming of doors to recreate,
Freshness upon the floors l look to walk in,
The heart seeking peace within hidden corners,
Old house needs again to hear talking,

Burn the dust and cobwebs of mourning,
Constantly running on one spot,
Yet never seeming to move onwards,
Time to open windows again to remove damp rot,
Removing the blinkered boards,
And facing the world again with joy,
Happy to now be removing dusty shrouds,
Smiling with pleasure like when a boy,
Taking off the covers from this old house.

© Rory Matier 2010

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