in my father's house

there are darker places

than this,

places of the night,

that call out

in silent whispers

within the soul,

too deep for the

average mind,

too far for the

typical traveler;

defeated and silent,

they lie waiting for a

return of the light,

which has already

been won,

forever;

in my fathers house,

everything is perfect,

yet silent killers

quietly wait,

preying on the dead,

choking what little life remains,

from quaking nooks

and crying crannies

hidden deeply within;

desperation and dreams,

make for big business,

lost and unemotional,

rolling on, past the walls

and barriers of all that

makes us who we are;

she has become the light,

it fills her now,

and hopefully,

one day through her,

it will fill me

as well.

.

.