Homes don't move, people do

It's time for those lullabies
sleeping in the backs of open eyes
to see the steady, sickly light
that makes a gaunt home
for bitter musings
and bubble wrapped moments
waiting to be forgotten
like the corner did it's cozying

its time for new rhythms
to rock the gentle seas
beneath forlorn gazes
but real men don't cry
unless repeatedly poked
by a white picket fence
in the times and places gone by

when a bulb lit room
held a shade sweet enough
to keep the sour light from puckering
the heart wedged in the door
because when that's shrunk enough
the sound of the door
will ring with an empty thunder
like gods true voice