House Hunter

4.48 Stasia on Floor.jpg
 

I’m hunting for a house to fill my rooms with jewels and memories, a product proof of thorough life through sturdiness of centuries. 
And so I met a new group tucked inside a brand new set of walls, and too soon I began to fall and came to call them hope.

I crashed against their floors and threw wide open all their locked up doors and broke in two their decorations with my loving roar.
I knew they'd meet my passion in the carving of our names, all as one, in every corner, fought and won. They’d feel the same.

So, I gave an inch of mind on the cemetery line that was drawn out by a woman we all came apart to know. 
And I’ve often been inclined toward the silent, strong, and kind, but in speaking sometimes find I’ve been given leave to go.
Yes, in speaking sometimes see that a box is made for me in this house I’d meant to be my sanctuary. But no.

I’m looking for a perfect house, affordable and small, one with bed and bath and spouse or any ghost of love at all. 
I’m looking for familiars in echoes of my former years, for perfect is that broken chair, those cowboy doors, that creaky stair,
And every room of strangers bares my burden-need, uncovers wares and windows they cannot repair and I barely recall.