The Lonely House

the business of being birds

by Stephen Paden

It was cold if I remember
in the bitter month December
when your brothers carried you
just down the road into your tomb

The falling leaves were falling harder
as my mind began to wander
broken thoughts, a rhyme or two
but always coming back to you

The plague that fell upon our home
where children played and love had roamed
crept in one evening, clever, stealing
love and life, and every feeling

Now the house sits on the hill
where love is dead and movement still
no vibrant sounds will ever find me
cold apparitions sit beside me

Lowly echoes turn to whispers
telling me how much I miss her
then at once the voices rose
breaking down my fragile pose

On the ground I found no solace
demons cackling as a chorus
judgment flying swift around me
wails and cries never retreating—

Like a devil’s…

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