A Family Home – Poem

Set back from the street,
Placed behind large imposing gates,
There is a home.
The brick and mortar, wood and slate,
Is all at one, joined together,
To be more than just a house.
Wooden, solid doors, possess no hole,
Through which anything can pass,
There is no entrance without permission.
For the others, peering through the wrought iron,
Foreboding, imposing, too strong to take down,
They smile and wave, but pass on quickly by.
Cobwebs on the windows, mean there is nothing fresh,
Closed up and locked down tight, outside is just that,
The family inside need nothing else but their bricks.
The rooms are filled with noise, the life and laughter,
Of people in love, able to share their soul and light,
Running freely from room to room, one to another.
No one beyond the gate could ever know the bonds,
Which remain unbreakable, untinged, and perfect,
With the proximity of years on their side.
A secret language shared between them, from their hearts,
Even with the bricks, the only true survivor,
And the biggest confidante, holding on tightly.
To it, they owe everything. To them it owes it all,
The building, to the house, to the home,
They all know each other’s secrets.
Except for the furthest room with blacked out windows,
And a keyhole in the door, which holds its own tongue,
The contents long forgotten. The key lost long ago.

© Persephone M 18/4/2012


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