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I have a handsome house, made of hope and happy glass.
I roam from room to room, round with silver, gold and brass.

I have a thoughtful friend. Paid a visit twice or thrice.
A frightful friend he is. Speaks in dreams on murky nights.

Sitting comfy on my porch swing, we look out upon his world.
He tells of unbound wonder, my easy thoughts a twirl.

I ask him please, inside with me, I have lots of pretty things.
He says, “Your rooms are so exclusive, come out instead, you’ll see.”

His rudeness is a shock to me. I say goodbye and go inside.
Holding close my coloured memory, I roam from room to room.

In one some pretty trinkets, to kneel in hallowed air.
A room for full immersion; a separate three for days of prayer.

From o’er the world on eagle’s wings, my painted friend persists.
He speaks of faith unbroken, a together life unspoken.

Where they hug the sun’s rise, climb the moon’s light.
All feel the bees sigh, where all as one, all is right.

I ask him please, inside with me, I have lots of pretty things.
“I can’t fill your barren rooms,” he thrusts, “I have a living key.”

Your house: Abomination! Wailing walls of butchered creeds.
Foundation’s split asunder. Inside you cannot see.

Words of hate and desolation, in stone, crooked carved.
This cross you bear, it drools with blood, and scores your cleaving heart.

Come out of it, forsaken child, for you its deadly haunted.
You will rot in separation. It has no room to offer.

You will never see through empty memory
Stained shut stuck glass hypocrisy.

Must you love a house that hates you?

His rudeness is a shock to me. I close my eyes and go inside,
to hungry hope and bitter promise.

 

© 2006 Murray Walford