in my fathers 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

to the 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.

.

.