So
what is it, I wonder, when somebody hates it?
A
hovel, a prison, a financial strain
With
no sense of warmth and an aura of pain
That
seeps into your bones, making every one ache,
Coils
around your heart like a venomous snake.
Injecting
its darkness to kill off the light,
Wrong
choices are made when you used to make right.
But
everyone suffers as you become rotten
And
all happy memories conveniently forgotten
Sit
now in the garage in boxes stacked high,
Neglected,
unwanted but then, by and by,
The
house that is home, the one that is new,
Feels
suddenly lonely and awfully blue.
You
stop and you look,
You
espy a book.
The
one, the only book on the shelf
Is
sitting there, lonesome, all by itself.
Your
eye wanders thoughtfully to not one box but three.
Then
you look at the bookshelf and finally see.
It’s
not all about buildings and auras and aches.
It
has nothing to do with metaphorical snakes.
When
you take a step back
When
you take in what you lack
You
see it as plain as the quizzical looks
That
what makes a home is a shelf load of books.
©Lisa
Lee 2012, sleeping in Elvegren Tales
