The House on the Hill

The click of the lock is a familiar friend that I've heard a thousand times before
Strangely it never opens; it just helps remind me that it's closed.

Water in my lungs, sand in my eyes. No breath. No escape.
I am Jack's overwhelming knowledge of failure and disappointment.

You are the whirlwind, the storm to which a thousand voices call out in prayer.
Mine among them, whimper though my voice is compared to its thunderous roar.

But I am just me. Little, trapped, old, me.
That mirror is completely empty.

It always is because I never look at it.
I don't have enough tears left in me for what I would see.

I keep the stranglehold on my own throat.
I squeeze a little harder when I dare to dream.

Was I not meant for gentle Sunday afternoons in the rain?
Was I not meant for dreaming of in a nearby café?

Who painted this ugly, monstrous outline? Who made these harsh lines, and sharp corners?
Who put terror into this painting of a cozy little house on a high hill?

This place is not so bad. The wind sings when it rushes those sharp corners around the walls, screaming its joy for all to hear. Little birds can nest in the chimney, they don't care how boring it is.

Even flowers will lend their bright colours to paint the walls. Maybe this place isn't so bad after all. Maybe the door is of an old wood that creaks and is difficult to open, but it still opens.

Maybe the hallway is empty, but there is an old sofa stretched nearly to the floor, where anyone can lie comfortably for a while. Maybe those shelves aren't just filled with books that have no pages in them.

Maybe the light even comes on sometimes.