Poetry: Tear Down This House

A/N: Here's another old poem from my vaults, ha ha.

Tear Down this House

Tear down this house.

Take out the little and big things,

the infinitesimal and universal things,

that made a home and family.

Every chair and lamp and photograph,

these must all come down and out.

Not a trace left but those ingrained in wood.

So you can tear down this house.

Tear down this house.

Rip up the floorboards that bare feet

padded on, pull out the windows

and the glass we peered out of

onto the street at night,

best friends forever, partners in crime,

sleeping on couches and chairs.

Tear down this house.

Tear down this house.

Young girls dreamed here, laughed here.

They learned to love here, cry here.

Promises were kept and broken here.

Clear out the kitchen

bar and stools and coffee cups.

Send them off to somewhere,

and tear down this house.

Tear down this house

so I can't climb the stairs,

slide my hand up the banister

or step on creaking floorboards.

Pull down the roof and attic.

Turn it into piles of so much rubble.

Leave it like a skeleton a while

before you tear down this house.

Tear down this house.

I never lived there anyway,

excepting when I did.

Friend and guest at the dinner table.

As the souls drift upwards and away

from the pile of boards on grass,

rising up like the mist this morning,

I see you tearing down this house.