Basement Shells

Black doors of grief,

Hide halls of pain,

Where children heave,

No one to blame,

And shadows formed,

From day's gone by,

Obscure the real reasons why.

Where those who were,

Sent to protect,

Speak languages,

In retrospect,

And brush away,

The pestering voice,

Which takes away the gift of choice.

Shackled to a present, set,

Embroiled in the past,

In cellar rooms abstract of light,

Where hope is seldom cast,

Much to afraid,

To step outside,

With secrets buried under pride.

What price we pay,

For things we've done,

When elders block,

The glowing sun,

Where basements then,

Become our shell,

To keep us trapped so close to hell.

Stairs now guarded,

By demon wards,

Choke out the light,

Of golden cords,

And guilt becomes,

Ones only friend,

And nothings left here to defend.

Who is to blame?

Who's left to care?

When youth if left,

Deserted there,

And not a soul,

Attempt to try,

To dry the ravaged tears we cry.

And left there trembling,

Within the maze,

Forgiveness fades,

Within the haze,

And stunted children,

Seldom find,

The key that has been left behind.

-- Michelle A. Bartley

-- (bygrace@thru.faith), April 06, 2001

Answers

Gentle nudge...

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), April 06, 2001.