The House
I built a house on a broken hill
Broken and mended with my own fears
I built a house on an empty space
That my mind produced instead of a cure
A house of plaster, a house of words
A creaking, cracking house of dreams
A house that held against all the winds
A house that was the birthplace of streams
There is still a place in the basement deep
A hole that opens in the deepest of dreams
It peers down deep into the abyss
Deep down, there’s a mirror of all that exists
And there I lay down on a floor, and I look
And in the reflection, there is not any house
I see myself floating up in the sky
And the streams of tears and blood flowing out
There is nothing to keep me and nothing to hold
There are no cracks and there are no seams
But there’s future below me and past up above
And me, flowing freely. A thousand of dreams.
