Behind Closed Doors

Darkest of oak,
stained with who-knows-what,
little golden-gild knob,
Locking away all those
messy little secrets,
all those
tidy little lies,
all those
skeletons in the closet.

Behind the protector lies
that long forgotten love,
that hopeful little promise of
sunshine, gold;
listen now as I snatch words
from Robert Frost's very own lips;
nothing gold can stay.

 Behind the little wall,
lies everything buried;
hatchets,
handles,
water under bridges,
but never really forgotten.

After forever and eternity,
when Christ returns to this
corruption, this
"promised land",
the hidden, stolen,
locked-away, locked-up
door that binds me here
shall open.
(Yeah, maybe 
someday) 

What do you think? 

Home

Four letters. Four, little letters. 7-15-13-5.
According to Dictionary.com, home has eleven different meanings; go here to read them.

 

But isn't home more then just that? Doesn't it have some sort of magic to it? Home is more then just a place where you live, but its the place where you store all your hurt, all your tears, all your pain, all your agony, all that bad stuff. But it's also the place where you store all that good stuff, all that magical stuff--love, happiness, those little thoughts that enter your mind throughout the day that make you smile. 

That's part of the reason people move, or why they divorce, or break up, whatever, isn't it? Because they want to escape all those emotions that have built up in their home for the last couple years. Because, sometimes, escapes must be made. Because, sometimes, home isn't a house; because home can be anything, can be human, can be a real, live, honest-to-goodness person. 

 

 I wonder where my home went?