by on February 3, 2022 :: 0 comments

Our childhood home was barren and bleak,
not a safe haven or a refuge for the weak;
a sullen mist pervaded the air and space,
there were no fancy curtains or dainty lace.

The upstairs hallway was dark and dreary,
there was no sunlight to wake the weary;
each daybreak brought challenges anew,
clouded memories we’d woefully accrue.

Fractured family confabs, emotions askew,
nervous perspiration wet as morning dew;
the same old tired song played in our heads,
shocking our spirits, turning us onto meds.

The basement was cold, dark and chilling,
a viable scenario for a frightful killing;
my brother was young when we moved
never knew the pain of being abused.

Parents are gone, it was time to go home,
and show Jimmy the dungeon I’d roam;
he’d never noticed a door there before,
nor the room that we’d come to abhor.

editors note:

A door we would keep shut, swings open sometimes. – mh clay

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