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The House Of My Soul
O beautious house that was!
So rich in color wtih complementary hues;
Crafted in care, every part put to use.
So many happy souls
In thee have dwelled,
And many a joyous season
Hath seen thee through the years.
But the untimely storm has blown,
And thy naked walls are laden with cobwebs,
Their icy white threads imbruing thy chambers,
Whilst the mold creeps over thy planks.
The dusty air suffocates all life
Which is not buried under the hard earth;
And a sad lament lingers over thee like a ghost.
House of My Soul
I think some idiot hurt your heart, and you are writing because you feel this way about yourself. You are NOT abandoned, nor alone. The spirit of Emily Dickinson LIVES in you -- as do the spirits of us: poets who understand where inspiration comes from. Both hot sun and miserable cold keep us alive and writing. Go For It !! Teddy
"Poe" I'm not, nor "Rich" am I,
but I'll be famous, b'ye and b'ye !
Beautifully written! Sounds like Emily Dickinson but you have a way of portraying what you mean that is your own.