Home of the Wanderer

He wanted to love her truly-
her eyes, her smile, her smell,
He wanted to make her laugh,
and catch her whenever she fell

But her eyes were hollow
and her smile long dead,
her heart smelled of carnations,

drying on a grave that said:

"Here lies a soul meant to float-
breeze through triumphs and losses-
beware of holding on to her, O Stranger,
if your life, she ever crosses!"

So his life, he decided,
would be her very home-
the place to which she'd inevitably return

But her home without her,
stands silent and haunted,
in the whistling woods, just waiting to be burned

The House is still his life
each brick, each crack,
every stone, every bone,
every breath held back.